


Hindsight

by Tyranno



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Time Travel, fear toxin, this fic is old but I'm posting it in case anyone wants to read it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-03-14 09:08:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13586868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyranno/pseuds/Tyranno
Summary: Or "The Incredible Second Life Of Damian Wayne"*There aren't many mistakes Damian Wayne is proud of, but accidentally traveling back in time and preventing his grandparents' death is probably one of them. Still, he's stuck in the past, looking a future with no batman, a new generation of heroes without a cynical role model, a crippled police force... and a lot of free time on his hands.((Adult Damian Wayne mentors young justice))





	1. Hindsight

**Author's Note:**

> This was a fic I wrote back in 2014? 2015? I then picked it back up in early 2017 and dropped it again. I thought it was only fair to finally share it, as some people might like to read it and it's just taking up space in my drafts. 
> 
> I drew chapter covers for them... the art is several years old and kinda ugly, but I still like it lol. I know it makes it tough for mobile, so sorry about that
> 
>  **I don't plan on writing any more for it, just for the moment** , but there is a fair amount already written, which I'll be posting soon.

The ground shook and he was born again.

His lungs heaved, ragged and wet, dragging in the night air. He couldn't see. His head felt too big and tight, a vice increasing pressure bit by bit, until his skull would explode. He tried to cradle it in his hands, but his arms were too heavy and ached something fierce.

Damian's body gave out, and he collapsed into the gutter.

Murky street water seeped into his uniform, stingingly cold. It took a few moments for his eyes to focus, and he squinted at a city street.

It was dark. A neon sign flared so brightly in the main street it was like looking directly into the sun. Damian squinted at it, shielding his eyes. It took far longer than he'd have liked for his eyes to adjust.

It was in English, which narrowed down the cities. He slumped back into the gutter, pressing his face against the sandpaper tiles.

He couldn't stay here, though, he was bleeding heav—

Wasn't he?

Damian shifted, snaking a hand in to touch his chest. His skin was mottled and uneven with scars, sliced up like a Christmas hog, but his fingers came away clear. How odd.

He shuffled onto his belly, and heaved himself up, shaking badly.

Damian fell back against the wall, knees shaking. He was weak and exhausted, if any passing freak/psycho/weirdo spotted him, he'd be toast. It was probably only the gutter's shadows he'd fallen into that'd saved his life.

On his feet, he could feel his strength returning. He could stand now, one hand on the wall, and make it look natural.

He stumbled onwards.

There was a bright burst of chatter, and Damian ducked into a shadow, eyes narrowed.

A mother, a father and son, bouncing happily as they ambled into Gotham's dark alleys.

Damian debated it over and over as he followed them. He didn't have time, he needed to contact batman, he was in no state to fight, he'd a liability, he'd probably wind up more injured.

He stuck close, but just out of sight.

A man pulled a gun, and he did what he was raised to do.

Quick as a whip, he slid past them and slammed his full weight into the mugger. The man stumbled backwards, and Damian swept his legs from under him.

Still flailing for the gun, the man jerked around, trying to catch him.

Damian fell on him in a heap of limbs, knocking the gun out of his hands, and twisting his arm around his back.

Breathing heavily, he glanced up at the family.

They stared in shock, glancing from him to the much larger, older man he'd just incapacitated.

Damian suppressed a grin, panting. “Have you seen batman around?”

The woman shook her head, still staring. “Sorry, batman…?”

Damian frowned, worry rising in his chest. “This is Gotham, isn't it?”

The man nodded, relieved, taking a step forward. “Listen, son, that was incredibly brave, what you just did.”

The son seemed to wake up from his daze, and beamed at Damian. “It was so cool! Like Zoro himself, swooping in to save us.”

Damian nodded, frowning. “Just call the police.”

The mugger noticed his loosening grip, but a vicious skull-smash against the pavement stopped whatever he'd tried to start. Damian watched the man go and find a phone while the woman and the boy came a little closer, although keeping a wary eye on the mugger. The boy was still beaming, but it was more disconcerting than anything.

“What's your name?” The boy asked, quietly.

Damian sent him a flat look, mind still churning. He'd been dead, hadn't he? All that pain couldn't have been a dream, or one of Scarecrow's toxins, he was trained to recognise those. And alternate universe then? He'd heard some stints in the justice league about them, and none of them were particularly good. He'd need a lot of extensive technology on either side of the universes, and he didn't look forward to trying to build the equipment from scratch.

“Is it a secret?” The boy shuffled closer, but his mother held a hand out to stop him.

“Don't badger the poor thing, dear.” The mother said softly.

The boy nodded, and turned back to Damian. “Is it a secret? You don't have to tell me.”

Damian nodded, shifting his grip on the mugger. His hands were starting to get stiff. He said nothing.

“My name's Bruce.” The boy said.

Damian glanced at him. A cold feeling rose in his gut. “Bruce what?”

“Bruce—” The boy cut himself off, shaking his head. “You've got to tell me your name first!”

“I'm Damian,” Damian said, sharply. “Bruce what?”

The boy grinned, triumphant. “Bruce Wayne.”

 

*

 

Damian had been left alone at the precinct, which he was grateful for. He had a lot to think about.

He stared bleakly into the cold cup of cheap hot chocolate that had become lumpy and disgusting in its old age. In the past? Right at the beginning? Before anything, before anyone, before…

It was hard to think about. For one, there was no turning back now. His father was not an orphan, and would likely never become batman now, remaining the chipper young man who eventually fills his father's shoes in the company, all he ever wanted without the death of his parents cleaving his soul in two. Damian supposed he could murder Thomas and Martha Wayne in their beds, and the same result could be achieved, but they were his grandparents. He just couldn't.

Gotham needed a batman, like the earth needed a moon. He was more than a man who fought crime, he was an icon. A hero. An emblem that kept the fear from the mother's heart as she watches her son disappear into the alleyway. Somebody would have to take the mantel up, when the time was right.

And if it couldn't be Bruce…

Damian shifted in his seat, glancing at the clock. It was ten pm, but it felt a lot later. It was hard to think, his head still ached.

Money would be no issue. He could gather it through assassinations, and he knew where to look to start off big. All it would take was working out what sources would still be available and what sources he'd have to wait for.

He pushed the cold mug from hand to hand, watching the clock tick by.

The room was some kind of secure waiting area for children, brightly painted with a security camera coming out of the sun. Sad, half eaten-books littered the shelves, and a stuffed giraffe looked at him accusingly from the corner.

It would only be a matter of time now, and he could begin. He would travel the world to improve his fighting form, sharpen his mind to the razor blade of his father's. Work on his detective skills. Build a bat cave underground a laboratory somewhere, and save the world.

A strange feeling settled in Damian's gut, heavy and cold.

He was alone.

For as long as he could remember, there had always been people paying full attention to him. Judging his abilities, critiquing his form. And then, later, questioning his morals, smiling at his barbs. Asking him, answering him, talking to him, bothering him. It was rare that he'd find a moment to himself, to think and reflect. He used to treasure his time alone, in silence.

But now…

He was alone. Truly alone, for the first time in his life. He was the only person in the world of his kind. There was no familiar face to turn to. He hadn't even been born yet, maybe never would be.

Damian could feel tears prick in his eyes. He tried to shove it down, but they welled up against his will. He was alone, in a different time, and hopelessly lost.

The door opened at the worst time possible.

Damian scrubbed a hand viciously over his eyes, shutting his feelings down. It would be worse, later, and he knew his eyes were red and wet, but at least he wasn't sobbing. At strangers. He felt embarrassment twist in his gut, and he looked away.

“Damian?” A child psychologist padded carefully through the door, followed by Thomas and Martha Wayne.

Damian turned towards them, eyes on the floor.

“Damian, can you look at me?” She asked, sitting opposite him.

He glanced up half-heartedly.

“That's good. It was a very brave thing you did today, Damian.” She looked slightly worse-for-wear, make-up half done and hair escaping its quick braid. He guessed he'd woken her up, but it probably came with the territory.

He didn't know if he was supposed to reply, so he let the air hang in silence.

“Where do you live, Damian?”

Oh, no. He hadn't thought of that. They wouldn't put him in a foster home, would they? It would be relatively easy to escape from, but he didn't know if he could make it to Arabia without the emergency money he had in his utility belt. When had that been printed, anyway? Despite himself, he could feel tears welling up as he found more and more holes in his plan.

“Damian, it's okay.” She leant across the table. “You can tell me.”

Damian snatched glances at Thomas and Martha, who both looked concerned. If they were anything like their son, they wouldn't let him fall through the cracks like he wanted to, they'd push and push for the police to find him, to put him in a good home. Oh, hell.

“I don't live anywhere,” Damian muttered.

The psychologist's gaze tinged with more pity. It was hard to look at. “Do you have any family, Damian?”

Damian scowled and looked away again. Sure, his Grandfather was alive and well, maybe his mother, but he didn't say that. He didn't want to lie, either, but that was probably Golden Grayson rubbing off on him too. “No.” He said, shortly.

The psychologist's gaze was boring into his skull. “Any friends? Acquaintances? People who'll miss you?”

“No.”

Thomas and Martha Wayne glanced at each other, and Martha went to say something, but she never managed it. It died in her throat, a gust of soft air in the silence.

“How old are you, Damian?”

“12.”

“And how long have you been living on the streets, Damian?”

“Um, two years.”

“Where were you living before that?”

“I—” Damian's voice died. There was a lump in his throat he tried to swallow down. “I was living… with my mother and Grandfather.”

The child psychologist tilted her head. “Why did you stop living there?”

“It was...” Damian struggled to find words. “...unpleasant.”

“If you don't mind me ask—”

“I do, actually.” Damian glared. “I'm not going to talk about it.”

The psychologist nodded, seemingly unruffled. She smiled sadly and Damian wanted nothing more than to punch her in the mouth. “You're right. It's late, and we're both tired. Mr and Mrs. Wayne, if you would, I'd like to have a word with outside.”

They all trooped out, like a merry band, and as soon as they were safely outside, Damian was choking back sobs.

 

*

 

“If you want to adopt that child, you need to make a decision immediately.” The child psychologist said, as soon as the door closed.

Martha straightened up, surprise washing her features. She shrunk back, glancing at her husband. “I… we were going to wait a while, talk it over with our son first, before we make such a big decision.”

Thomas wrapped one arm around his wife. “Isn't that what all the books say? We can't just rush into this.”

“That would be true, usually,” The psychologist glanced at the closed door, an odd expression on her face. “But I've seen children like that before. As soon as you let them, they'll be gone. There's nothing keeping him here, nobody who'd miss him. If you wish to accept him into your family, you need to do it tonight, or you won't have the chance.”

Thomas frowned. “But we don't know what he's like, we know nothing about him. What if he doesn't—what're you supposed to say?—fit with the existing family dynamic?”

“Thomas,” Martha pressed a hand to her husband's arm. “He saved our lives. He's twelve, injured, hungry, and alone, and he jumped in front of a gun to save complete strangers. We owe him so much.”

Thomas looked down into his wife's eyes, and knew there was nothing he could do. She had made up her mind, and not him, not God Himself could stop her now. He sighed, and straightened his tie. “Alright. How do you suppose we approach him on this matter?”

 

*

 

Damian stood outside the manor, as it was then.

It was the same as he'd always seen it. Under his feet, he knew there was no expanded cave like a secret bunker, shining silver supercomputer like an audience before a king. Under the manor there was nothing but old stone and foul earth, bats' wings sounding like slaps of leather.

Wayne Manor was the same. Perfectly symmetrical, pale brown spears and towers pointing skyward, the huge expanse of rolling green ground behind it. The windows sparkled clean, upper ones curving gently. Two old oaks Damian didn't recognise crouched like evil things in front of each wing. They would be removed, and the muddy grass paved over.

But it was so close to home, Damian felt his heart stutter. He could almost imagine Grayson throwing open the door, trying to be angry but obviously relieved at his return. The smooth sounds of his steps, the crooked grin.

Damian turned his face away.

He felt homesickness rising in his chest like a tide. He pushed it down, and watched as the huge black gate swung open.

Damian had no bags, and half-jogged to the front door.

It took a long time.

The doors were open before he reached them, and young Bruce Wayne was already there, grinning madly.

“You came! You're a Wayne now.” He grinned, waving him inside.

“-tt-” Damian muttered, uneasily. “On a trial basis.”

Bruce was a little shorter than him, and looked up at him with shining blue eyes. “C'mon, I'll show you around.”

Damian let himself be dragged around, told things he already knew. Even though it bored him to tears, he couldn't quite bring himself to tell his one-day father to leave him alone. It was the same layout, with barely anything was different. A few rugs hadn't been replaced yet, but it seemed that after inheriting the mansion, his father had left it relatively unchanged.

They passed the door to Thomas Wayne's study, not locked and mouldering as he remembered it but the door thrown wide, gentle jazz playing from a small, ancient gramophone.

Bruce tugged him around the corner and they both jogged down the stairs. Bruce pulled him urgently into what Damian remembered as the gym.

There was no tightrope in the centre, carpeted with foam and sometimes a trampoline, and the mats looked a little less beaten up, but aside from that it was the same room. Same stretching beige walls and endlessly high ceiling. Same flat, dusty cold floor spreading uninterrupted to huge, towering windows.

It was hard to orient himself with the waves of Déjà vu, so instead Damian looked straight at Bruce. “This is the gym?”

“Yes,” Bruce grinned. “Hey, can I ask a favour?”

Damian folded his arms, warily. “Possibly.”

“Could you teach me to fight? Like you did in the alley?”

Damian frowned, opening his mouth to object, but Bruce interrupted him. “C'mon! You don't have to teach me all of it at once, and if I'm really bad, we can stop.”

Damian frowned hard, and then sighed. He really had nothing to lose. “...alright.”

Bruce grinned brightly, a boy used to having his own way. “Alright then, let's get going. What first? Punching? Kicking? Maybe a back-flip?”

Damian shook his head sharply. “-tt-, no.”

“But—why?” Bruce frowned.

“You could injure yourself easily. You have little to no muscle mass, and you're incredibly unstable. You'll probably tear yourself apart,” Damian raised an eyebrow.

Bruce jerked back, like a puppy smacked on the nose with a newspaper.

Damian glanced at Bruce's frame. He was a little stockier than Damian, but he was still only ten. That meant a style that quickly overpowered a much stronger, much larger opponent.

Damian cracked his knuckles, thinking hard. He'd used pieces of modified Krav Maga in the alleyway, but that would put the user in grabbing distance of the opponent, and while it finished fights quickly, those minutes would be deadly for a beginner.

Tae Kwan Do was a better choice. It could be explained away easily as a recreational martial art, and it focused on control, precision, and speed. It also focused keeping the opponent away from you, and finishing the fight quickly.

“First thing's first,” Damian straightened his back and locked eyes with his future father. He thought back to his first lessons, all those years ago. The mantras he'd learnt were spat by instructors over and over, drilled into his skull. “You need to be in control of yourself.”

“Ok!” Bruce matched his stance quickly.

Damian's gaze flattened. Bruce was clearly not taking this seriously, if the broad smile on his face told him anything. “In a fight, you need to be in motion at all times. Most fights start cold, but if you can, keeping active will reduce the damage to your muscles. Now, watch.”

Damian moved one foot forward, slow enough for Bruce to mimic, sliding the other behind the line of his shoulders. “Bend your back knee to bring your back foot onto its ball.” Damian instructed, “Move your weight from foot to foot, slowly.”

Bruce bounced, nearly throwing himself forward with every motion.

“No!” Damian snapped, “Slower.”

Bruce obeyed, moving jerkily. He still almost fell forward with every motion, but he was less likely to hurt himself at least.

Damian glared at him, still bouncing gently. “-tt- You need to bend your knees more. You're too stiff.”

Bruce did the motion a few more times, and then straightened up, disheartened. “Can't we try something else? Something easier? This is annoying.”

“This is the easiest it gets,” Damian straightened up too, temper souring. “It's even easier than the first stance.”

“Teach me that, then,” Bruce glanced at him eagerly. “If I can do that, we'll go back to the bouncy thing later.”

Damian mulled it over. “Fine.”

Bruce grinned.

“The first stance is Joonbi, the ready stance.” Damian stood tall, placing his feet together, waiting impatiently for Bruce to do the same. He brought his fists, facing up, to the bottom of his ribs. He stepped out, lowering his fists.

Bruce copied him quickly, and repeated the motion several times, growing sloppier each time.

“No, slower!” Damian said, irritably. “You'll perform moves faster in a fight, but now you're all over the place.”

Bruce huffed, dropping his stance. “I did it, didn't I? Let's move on, this is boring.”

“-tt-! The way to learn is to repeat this move a hundred times perfectly, and then we will move on.”

Bruce's eyes widened. “A hundred?!”

Damian's scowl deepened. “Yes, a hundred! Later, it will only take fifty times. Then twenty five. I can master a move in fifteen perfect sets, but it takes longer to recall.”

Bruce pouted, kicking a mat. “That's way too many. It's so boring! If you don't teach me something else, I'm going to leave.”

Damian's patience, always short-fused, was completely gone. He tensed his muscles and curled his hands into fists, advancing on Bruce. “Then leave!” He snarled.

Bruce stumbled back, scowling and jutting out his jaw. He ran to the door, slamming it as loudly as he could behind him.

Damian watched the still door long after it closed, anger churning in his stomach. His father had been insufferable as a child. He thought fighting was a game, something to be impressive at. It rubbed him completely the wrong way, for everything he had done since birth, everything he had been trained to do, to see it all cheapened to a plaything.

Damian paced, tensing and relaxing his muscles.

Like most of the bat's children, Damian worked off anger (and most other feelings) by throwing himself into training.

And he was already in the gym.

 

*

 

“How did Damian like the house, son?” Thomas Wayne asked when he spotted Bruce in the hallway.

Bruce scoffed. “Who cares? He hates me anyway.”

“He hates you?” Thomas asked.

“Yes! I wanted him to teach me to fight, and all he would teach me was this stupid boring bouncy thing and a ready stance. It was awful. And he was really mean to me.” Bruce sulked, pulling at the books he was leaning against.

“A good thing, too,” Thomas nodded. “It would be dangerous for you to start on big moves early.”

Bruce sniffed unhappily, flicking through a book.

“Master Wayne? The dinner is ready to serve. Perhaps young Master Bruce should fetch his new brother?” Alfred poked his head around the doorway.

“No, thank you Alfred,” Thomas raised a hand. “I think I'll go.”

 

*

 

“20…21...22...” Damian pushed himself upwards, feeling the muscles twist and slid against his bones, revelling in the feel of it. It was only when he was working that he felt completely at peace. He took a deep breath from the bottom of his lungs. “...23...24...25…”

He felt sweat roll down his side and heard it slap onto the mat. His chest burnt from the thick twists of scars there, but it was a good burn. It felt good. “...26...27...2—”

Damian heard a movement in the doorway, and he flipped himself upwards, dropping into a fighting stance.

Thomas Wayne stared at his chest.

Oh. Damian drew his arms towards himself.

Thomas Wayne advanced, long strides closing the distance in minutes. His hands closed around Damian's wrists but he didn't force them open.

After a pause Damian slowly opened his arms, allowing the intense gaze of the surgeon to scour his bare chest.

Damian knew what it looked like. His entire body was a network of tight scars, some white and faded, others still red and angry, but the one on his chest was the worst. The sword wound, directly over his heart, was hard to look at.

It was thick and ugly, puckered and scabbing at the edges, raised flesh like red tree roots across his dark skin. It shone in the too-bright gym lightly, sparkled with sweat. It was evil-looking, and easy to believe the sword really had cleaved him in two.

“What happened to you?” Thomas asked, quietly, eyes raking over the old wounds.

Damian turned his face away, an angry prickling heat rising up his neck. He had never thought of his scars before. In the league of assassins, they had been an asset, proof that you'd fought a tough, nearly equal opponent and won. Heavy scars were undesirable, restricting movement and looked nasty, but small, superficial scars were a good move. Damian himself had never paid attention to what was and wasn't fashionable in the league, but he had never learnt to hide them. Grayson, Father, even the other Robins hadn't mentioned them, barely even looking at them, and yet here his own grandfather found them shameful.

“Who did this to you, Damian?” Thomas asked, more firmly now. His grip tightened slightly.

Damian looked him in the face, and saw the worry there, and he softened, defeated. He breathed deeply, sagging, and Thomas released his arms. Damian touched his chest lightly, the hard flesh foreign against his finger tips. “...My mother.”

Thomas straightened up. “Don't worry, Damian.” His voice sounded tired, and Damian knew his eyes were mournful even though he couldn't bring himself to look him in the face. “You're a Wayne now. Your mother and I will never let anything like that happen to you again.”

Damian nodded, and scooped his shirt from the gym floor, tugging it over his head. It was uncomfortably tight, sticking to him in patches, but he didn't ask for a towel.

Thomas gave him a long, deep look. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply, from the cradle of his lungs, moustache fluttering slightly. When he opened his eyes, his gaze was more professional, closed off. “Dinner is ready. Follow me, if you would.”

“Thank you.” Damian trotted after him, face blank and a slightly smile on his lips, every inch the dutiful son.

 

*

 

“Now, you boys have fun,” Martha Wayne perched on the edge of the mansion's steps, nightgown flicking in the sharp breeze.

Bruce waved enthusiastically, leaning out of the window, while Damian held up a hand, managing a smile.

The car swerved and pulled out onto the road, engine rumbling gently through Damian's tight new boots. He shifted, tugging at his stiff cotton shirt, glancing over at Bruce. Bruce jutted his jaw at him, looking away.

“What is the academy like?” Damian tried. He'd never had to rebuild bonds before, and it was hard to think of anything worth saying.

“Boring...” Bruce grumbled.

Damian let the conversation fizzle out.

It wasn't a priority, making friends with Bruce. Bruce was the kind of man—kind of boy—who would always maintain a level of trust for those he considered family. Anything he needed from him, he could get, if he framed it right.

Damian watched the city pass, brighter than he remembered it. His Gotham was old and ragged, even the main streets. Everything seemed to have been there for hundreds of years, and the stagnant mindset was echoed in the people. Nothing could change. If you died, it was just what had happened. It was only Batman that changed things.

But this Gotham was brighter, and younger. They even passed a few construction sites. Without the ingrained dirt, Gotham could have been anywhere, it could have been Metropolis or Jump city. It was nowhere that needed a Batman.

“It's just so dull!” Bruce bursts out, surprising Damian. “It's all so easy! The teachers explain it over and over again, and it's all useless anyway. And all the boys are so annoying and all the girls are so boring. The food is terrible. All the teachers are dull and snivelling.”

Damian felt a swell of pride. It was near word-for-word what he had said to to Dick in his own time. “It sounds horrible.”

Bruce looked at him, eyes wide. He grinned, brightly. “Yes! Yes it is!” Bruce shifted closer, “I have to learn Latin! It's a dead language, what's the point? Nobody's going to ask me to run the company in Latin.”

Damian nodded, a satisfied grin blooming. “And I'll bet the reading material is simply atrocious.”

“Yes!” Bruce exclaimed, “Old books that just send me straight to sleep. And who cares what the underlying messages in the text tell you about the author's internal conflict? If he wanted to tell me something, he should have written it down clearly!”

Damian nodded again. It was rare to find an ally in the hostility against school work. Bruce's other children had all been bookworms, soaking up knowledge like sponges. His father might not have enjoyed learning, but viewed it as an integral part of his work, and when it made him more secure it was splitting hairs. Alfred was the only one who had tried to consolidate him, but Damian could tell the butler was also one who enjoyed academics.

“...and the science labs are just awful. I don't have the effort to do practical experiments, and they make everything smell horrible anyway,” Bruce ranted, offloading all of his frustrations, “and my lab-partners are all lazy and don't enjoy it any more than I do, so I end up having to do all of the work while they record all the evidence, which means that...”

Damian settled back in his seat. It was always nice to have someone else to do all the talking.

 

*

 

Damian spread the newspaper over the table, the sheets huge and crammed with tiny lines of text. The front was emblazoned with a photograph of the president and his wife, with a long discussion of various political reforms.

Despite what Damian had always claimed, his historical knowledge was limited to various classical dictators and rulers, close studies of money-making technology and business models. He certainly had no time for in-depth studies of American history. His lack of knowledge annoyed him, but there was nothing he could do about it.

He scanned the front cover—he'd already read this story in another paper and found it rather dull, since it was unlikely to effect him. He tried to feign an interest, but it was impossible.

The clock ticked and whirred in the corner, a sound he could ignore for hours until he noticed it and it began unbearable. Every stroke came like a jolt of electricity through him. It was incredibly irritating.

He felt anger curl inside his stomach. Every second came with a soft tick. His hand shook.

He was in the past. It wasn't fair. He hadn't done anything wrong. He'd actually done something right for a change!

The clock ticked, mocking him. Time moved with a jangle of tocks. Each one burned in his chest.

The newspaper crushed in Damian's hands. The shaking became unbearable.

Rage flooded his mind, flashing behind his eyes. His breathing juttered. His knuckled whitened. He wanted to break something, someone, crush someone's—

“Damian?”

Damian's head snapped towards the doorway. Colour rushed to his face. His anger twisted into embarrassment and he released the crumpled paper guiltily. “Mrs Wayne.”

Martha's eyes were deep and bright. She leant against the doorway, expression unreadable. Her eyes dropped to Damian's chest.

Shame prickled behind his ribs. He shifted away. So Thomas had told his wife about his scars, that was understandable. But this level of concern was hard to face.

“You can call me Martha, you know…” Martha pushed off the doorway lightly, her steps catlike. She moved with the grace of a ballerina. Damian had no idea if she had been one, he realised with a jolt.

“...Or Mom.”

Damian flinched.

“Oh! I'm so sorry, dear.” Martha engulfed him, warm and sweet smelling.

Damian blinked. She smelt like sweet, dried flowers. The hug reminded him of Grayson, but Grayson was strong, hard muscles and bones, and Martha was warm, soft cotton and powdered skin.

Martha carded a hand through Damian's hair. “I didn't think. I didn't mean to upset you.”

Martha pulled away, hands cupping Damian's small shoulders. She looked at him, her eyes brilliant in the dim light. She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out. She smiled.

“You know, Damian, you can talk to me, to both of us, about anything.” Martha's eyes twinkled. “Anything at all.”

Damian was wordless. He blinked quickly, a heady rush of emotions nearly overwhelming him.

“Even if it's silly,” Martha pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I'll listen.”

Damian nodded, and watched her linger. Something warm unfurled inside his stomach.

“You don't have to be alone,” She murmured.

 

*

 

Bruce tasted blood and sticky mud, face hard into the playing field's dirt.

“Get off me!” Bruce yelped. He tried to twist around but a heavy weight fell on him, crushing the air from his lungs. He scrabbled in the mud, trying to find purchase, but he couldn't move his arms.

A deep laugh echoed behind him, and the pressure shifted to his back, sending shards of pain through his shoulder. He gasped.

“Your dad should have thought of that,” The boy snatched Bruce's wrist as forced it behind him. “Before he fired my ma.”

Bruce struggled, but it was like he was cast in iron. He couldn't really feel his arm, let alone pull it back. “Don't—”

The boy smashed Bruce's face into the ground, grinding his nose into the hard, wet dirt.

Bruce's lungs burned. Foul-smelling mud clogged his nose, he lost feeling in his ribs. His head went light.

“You Waynes!” The boy pressed harder on the back of Bruce's head, crushing his nose into the dirt. “You think you own everything!”

Bruce's ears began to ring. He was going to die! His lungs screamed for oxygen, panic wormed through his stomach, horrible and unsettling. He shook his back, tried to squirm away. He heard the boy laugh as tears pricked Bruce's eyes.

The weight lifted with a rush of air.

By the time Bruce could lift his head, half the battle was over.

Damian crouched over the biggest boy, holding him by the shirt. Anger boiled like an insidious fire inside his stomach, rolling through his chest, devouring his mind. How could he… how dare he… Damian's fist shook. Dick spoke in the back of his mind, soothing him, trying to calm him down, reason with him, but the voice just fuelled the flames.

Bruce cheered. “Yeah, get him! Beat him up!”

Damian's blood ran cold.

The boy dropped from his hand and scrambled away, muttering curses.

Damian stared at Bruce, gaze dark.

Bruce's voice died in his throat, and he shied away from the heavy gaze, face pink.

 

*

 

“You're looking awfully...” Damian trailed off, trying to pinpoint a word. “…merry?”

Bruce grinned. He looked like he might start vibrating. He gestured wildly to the half-filled sports bag in his hands, shaking the contents at his older brother. Damian craned his neck to look inside.

“You're joining the swim team?” Damian huffed. Was he going to have to guess?

“No! We're going on a trip to the beach.” Bruce's happiness bubbled through his voice. It was strange to hear, when he'd seen Batman more as the myth than the man for the longest time. It was like a giggling volcano.

“Oh.” Damian mumbled, trying to move past his younger brother. “Have fun.”

“Wha—you're coming to!” Bruce grabbed his elbow.

Damian shifted under his grip. “I don't like the beach,” he lied.

“C'mon,” Bruce whined, “It's great.”

Damian waited for Bruce to list the pros and cons, effectively trapping him in his own reasoning, but it never came. Even Dick came at him prepared to twist his arm into attending whatever it was. But Bruce obviously wasn't used to coercing people into making choices. At least, not yet. Damian cleared his throat. “Why?”

“It's so great there,” Bruce pouted. “The sun is so nice, and the ocean is so cool, and the waves look really cool, and I'm great at volleyball.”

Damian tilted his head. “No, I mean, why do you go? What's your reasoning?”

Bruce shrugged. “It's relaxing.”

Damian nearly scoffed, but managed to stop himself just in time. These Waynes spent their entire lives relaxing. “Alright.” Damian nodded. “I can't see why not.”

He could, actually. He'd planned to spend his summer holiday bulking up on his history, and joining a Dojo to keep his physical strength up.

Bruce grinned. “Alright, we need to get shopping.”

Damian shot him a glance. “...Shopping?”

 

*

 

“What about this?” Bruce produced a skimpy, flower-printed bikini.

Damian glanced over it and shook his head, a slight crease appearing in his forehead. He pushed along the aisles, skimming his gaze across the swimsuits.

Bruce jogged after him, pushing the bikini into a random pile. It was harder to tease Damian than he'd thought it would be. The boy seemed to get more irritated than anything.

“Why not just pick a random black one,” Bruce swiped a black speedo from the rack. “It looks kind of like mine.”

“Not enough cover.” Damian muttered. All of the swimwear were skimpy, especially the male ones. He would much rather wear the female full-body suits, but he still wished to avoid his father's disdain, even though he was technically older than him right now.

“You're looking for a suit that doesn't exits, Dami,” Bruce mumbled unhappily.

Damian jumped slightly at the nickname, but sighed, frowning. It was probably true. He scooped one of the longer shorts at random, running a hand down the thick fabric.

“You could always wear a swimming shirt over the top of it.” Bruce suggested, gesturing to the next aisle over.

Damian brightened, and moved over.

“What about this one, with the squiggles?” Bruce waved a shirt at him.

“It's not squiggles.” Damian muttered darkly, “It's Arabic.”

“Oh, cool,” Bruce put it back.

Damian pulled it back out. “It says:… The one on shore... is a master swimmer.”

Bruce snorted. “I bet it doesn't.”

Damian glared. “Illi 3ala l-barr 3awwaam,” He ran his fingers over the text, “that's what it says. It means, basically 'easier said that done'. It doesn't really fit with swimming, but I suppose it's aesthetically pleasing.”

Bruce huffed, moving away.

Damian gritted his teeth to avoid strangling his future father in such a public place.

Damian dropped the shirt back onto the rack, and pulled a plain blue nylon shirt from the top rack. He considered picking the Arabic one simply to annoying his 'little brother' but it would probably irritate him more than Bruce.

He jogged over to his new parents, knuckling down on his anger.

It was going to be a long trip.

 

*

 

It was the perfect day.

Lifted straight out of a travel magazine, the sky was the deepest, clearest, cloudless blue, the palm trees' dark leaves rose slightly in a pleasant breeze. The sea moved restlessly, chilling muscles of waves stirring, sheen of froth glittering like diamonds.

The beach stretched around them, white sand soft under their feet. The Waynes breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Damian hung back, scanning the nearly empty grassy dunes behind. There were a few crew members, who were leaving in patches, but apart from that they were alone. He couldn't stop himself from scanning and checking the area though. The open spaces made him nervous. If an assassin attacked, or a helicopter with a mounted automatic passed, they were sitting ducks. With no cover, no body armour of any kind, they were done for.

Thomas put a hand on his shoulder.

Damian jerked his head up.

“You can relax.” Thomas smiled warmly. “Nothing is going to hurt you here.”

Damian glanced away. It was easy for him to say. He half jogged to keep up with Bruce.

Bruce glanced at him, and grinned, again. It was hard to get used to how much he smiled. “C'mon, let's go in the ocean.”

Damian trailed after him.

The ocean was bone-chillingly cold, but Bruce bounced through it, grinning. The waters were dark and Damian didn't trust them at all. Any number of things could conceal itself in the swirling tides. He tried to see through the green, but it was impossible. The spinning shadows tricked his eyes.

Damian shook his head and took a few deliberate steps in to the ocean.

Bruce grinned, splashing him.

Damian snarled and swept an armful of water his way.

Bruce giggled and darted backwards, slipping into deeper waters.

Damian gave chase, catching his brother with a fistful of water. It was a nice way to get Bruce back for his childish behaviour, he assured himself, as a sly smile bloomed on his face.

Bruce squealed laughter, shaking seawater from his hair, just in time to get another face-full.

 

*

 

“You know what we can do, now we have an even number of people?” Bruce asked casually, over the picnic.

Damian glanced at his brother over the egg quiche, mildly interested. He shuffled forwards slightly. It felt good to be outside again.

Bruce waited patiently, but nobody suggested anything. “We should play volleyball! Two v. Two!”

“Oh...” Martha glanced at Damian, who shrugged. “I suppose, if you want to.”

“I can't see why not,” Thomas straightened up, and began packing food back into the hamper. “Exercise is good for growing boys.”

Bruce tugged the net from out of his bag, hurrying to set it up before anyone changed their minds. He pulled a beach ball and tossed it from hand to hand. “Ever played, Dami?”

Damian shook his head, cracking his knuckles.

“Don't worry,” Bruce grinned. “I'll go easy on you.”

Damian's grin deepened.

 

*

 

Bruce whined, cradling his elbow. His entire body ached. It felt like he'd been run over, several times. He sat down with a heavy thump, scrubbing sweat from his face. “I'm beat. Let's stop.”

Damian's grin was all teeth, baring down on him. He tossed the ball from hand to hand. He wasn't even panting. “Why? I was just getting the hang of it.”

“Bruce's right,” Thomas wheezed, clutching at his sides. “I think it's best we take a break.”

“Oh,” Martha straightened out her skirt. She couldn't quite hide her grin. “Well, if you're sure.”

Thomas and Bruce limped away to lie in the shade, while Martha began to dismantle the net. She was still smiling, practically glowing from their sound victory. She beamed at Damian.

“We make a great team,” Damian grinned, slyly.

“Yes,” Martha tied the net up with ease, happiness rolling off her like heat.

She stopped, halfway to the net's bag. She glanced back at Damian, smiling. “You're very skilled, Damian, perhaps you'd like to join the school team.”

Damian froze. “I suppose.”

Martha stuffed the net back in the back. “You should consider it, at least. You could play major league.”

Damian nodded, stiffly. He hadn't really thought about any other options. He trailed after her, hoping for a distraction, but settling down in the shade gave him all the time in the world to think.

He stared up into the canopy of palms. The sun light shifted and slanted through the gaps in the dark leaves, gold glittering where it hit the sand. It was warm too, a soft warmth like a hot drink or a blush against his skin.

Damian breathed out a long sigh and his eyes flickered shut.

He'd always assumed he would become Batman. It had been what he was born to do. Kill or manipulate Batman, take the mantel when the time was right. That had been his mother's wish. It had always made sense to him.

But what if he didn't want to? His conviction to become Batman or something similar… he'd always assumed it was because of Dick and his father's influence, but what if it was just a warped version of his mother and grandfather's influence?

What did he want?

Damian pushed himself off the sand and leant against the rough palm's bark. It itched through his shirt, but the skin was scarred from a few too many tosses against the walls and through windows so he couldn't really feel it.

He wanted to protect people. Stop crime. Protect his family, and anyone else. All kinds of people. Anyone who needed help, he wanted to be able to protect them.

Did he need to be batman to do that?

It was true, batman did a lot of things the police couldn't. And the police were mainly ineffective due to corruption. But…

Damian grumbled something incoherent and buried his face in his hands.

If the police were better, they wouldn't need batman. There were plenty of cities that didn't have a superhero or regular hero in them. Right now, it was all of them. Batman couldn't be everywhere, but the police could, in a way.

And…

He didn't really... want to be batman. Not like this, at least. He didn't want to be the first. He had wanted to continue his father's legacy out of respect for what he had done, and what he was.

Damian cracked an eye open.

Bruce had fallen asleep on the warm sand, snoring softly. He was ten. Small and stocky, with his mother's eyes. Baby fat still cushioned his cheeks. He would have the childhood he deserved, at least. Damian would make sure of that.

And as for the future… Damian straightened out his legs, leaning back against the unforgiving bark. He'd just have to wait and see.


	2. Something Wicked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruce - 11 damian - 13
> 
> this is my favourite cover haha

 

It was a good night for bad things.

The night air was hushed, like it was holding its breath. The chapel was dark and cold, like an enormous grave, a monument to the ghosts that lingered on the air. The leaves stilled, breeze vanishing.

A shiver ran down Damian's spine. He did not move.

The night was silent, deathly, achingly so. There was no moon, only a thick, insidious blackness that seemed to press against him, insistent. It seemed angry, for all the weeks he had stayed away from the night, wrapped in blankets with a bright night-light to chase it away. It needn't have worried. Damian was the son of the bat, after all. Even now.

Damian heard footsteps, and shifted in the trees. His eyes narrowed against the dark, the old woman shuffled her great-grandson along the dirt path. They were silent.

Half of him wanted to swoop in now, to ruin everything because the alternative was horrible. He scowled and slipped further into the trees. He was getting soft.

The great Grandmother opened the chapel door, and shoved the boy inside.

He fell, and turned his face to the door, tears glistening in his eyes. “No—! Granny, I—”

The door slammed with a terrible finality.

 

*

 

Jonathan was in a world of pain.

He wanted to tear the birds off him, but all he could do was flail and writhe uselessly as they overwhelmed him. They covered him, every second more arrived, screeching and screeching, tearing at his skin, at his hair, at his suit. They were all over him, snapping at his ankles, clawing at his hair, blood drenching the cold church floor.

He covered his face and screamed, ears flooded with the slap of birds' wings, the piercing shriek of their cackles.

Jonathan's legs gave out and he curled into a ball. They snapped at him, a heavy cloud of black, only snatches of a cold grey ceiling, of a dark, moonless night. It was like hell itself had opened up over his head.

Someone tackled him, and he whimpered.

There was a burst of shouting, but he couldn't hear anything over the howl of the birds. The stranger scooped him up and ran.

The night air was sudden and shocking. Jonathan huddled against the stranger as he ran, bouncing and shaking, full pelt into the dark countryside.

The birds followed.

“—tt-!” The stranger snarled, but his words were swallowed by the shrieks.

The cloud of animals screamed and screamed, wrathful. They blocked out the dark blue night, swarming on them.

The stranger fumbled with something Jonathan couldn't see, a car door opened and he was thrown inside. Birds tumbled and shrieked around their—

The door slammed and there was silence.

Jonathan sat where he fell, heart beating wildly. Panic jolted through his chest. He couldn't quite believe he was here. It was dark, very dark, and he couldn't see anything. Even the stranger was a bundle of grey shapes.

The stranger grumbled and fished around for keys.

“Who—?” Jonathan muttered. He almost didn't want to speak. It was like being in the presence of something ethereal. His dark and strange saviour, whisking him from the shadows, and speaking would disrupt him. The car, the boy, it would all disappear in a flurry of black and he would be on the chapel floor again, weeping blood.

The stranger turned on the headlights, and glanced at him. He was a lot younger than he'd thought he'd be, around the same age of Jonathan, with sharp features even in the dim light. “I'm Damian.” The stranger muttered. He was hurt. A steady trickle of blood flowed from where a crow had caught him at his hairline.

“It's—uh—n-nice to meet you, Damian,” Jonathan glanced out into the dark countryside. The headlights stood out sharply, like two spears of blinding light in the void. A bird darted through the light, picked out in an instant in perfect detail, and then vanished. “Aren't you a little yo-young to be driving a car?”

Damian shrugged. He scanned the countryside once, and reached for the keys, but froze. He settled back into his seat.

Jonathan edged away from him.

“Crane?” Damian said, suddenly. “Jonathan Crane?”

“Y-yeah?” Jonathan flushed, like he'd been caught in the act of doing something obscene. He shuffled back into the middle of his seat.

“Do you want to come with me?” Damian turned on him. His eyes were bright, inhumanely bright in the car light, like two stained glass blues lit by an evening sun.

Jonathan wanted to go with him, he realised. The need to leave rose up like a physical pressure, it got so bad it was all he could do not to run into the country roads himself, barefooted and wild. He nodded. Fear sparked in his chest, so he asked, “What about my great-grandmother?”

“She won't look for you.” Damian started the car with a rumble. “Even if she does, Gotham's a long way away. You're safe. There's a change of clothes in the back, use those.”

Jonathan sunk back into the chair. He could still feel his heart beating in his chest, but his panic quietened. He unbuttoned his shirt and slipped it off. He pulled the clean-smelling cotton over his head.

Safe.

 

*

 

Damian slowed to a stop, cursing quietly. Jonathan slept uneasily in the passenger seat, huddled against the door.

Great Grandmother Crane stood in the middle of the road.

Damian opened the door as quietly as he could, closing it behind him.

The temperature dropped a few degrees, like ice against Damian's skin. He hated the cold nights. His glare was dark.

Great Grandmother Crane stood like an act of nature, black dress swirling in the wind like a tiger's tail.

Damian felt like growling.

“Release Jonathan, heathen.” Great Grandmother Crane ordered. Her voice was like a thunderclap in the night.

Damian straightened up. “Move.”

Great Grandmother Crane stood, an immovable object. “I will not allow you to steal my great grandson and use him for your satanic deeds.”

Damian glared, trying to pour all the loathing in his soul into his glare. His skin prickled. “-tt-. I won't ask you again.”

She stood like she she would stand there until the world ended.

Damian rolled his eyes. “Fuck you, wrinkles, this car reverses.”

 

*

 

Jonathan woke in the early hours of the morning, while Damian was trying to manoeuvre through thick Gotham traffic.

“...wow...” He breathed.

The buildings rose tall enough not just to scrape the sky, but to pin the clouds to it like butterflies. The cars rumbled like giant bees, and there were so many of them, darting and weaving around each other. The noise was incredible, vibrating through the windows and shaking his skull.

The thick smell of burning rubber and greasy, wet dog seeped through the closed windows and stuffed up Jonathan's nose. The cold of the night had settled deep in his bones, making him stiff and uneasy.

Damian seemed less impressed, thick brows knitted together in a deep frown.

“What's wrong?” Jonathan mumbled, words slurring together.

Damian flicked something and turned the wheel in a jerk, swerving into the traffic, dipping into another line in the endless labyrinth of cars. He craned his neck around to check the traffic lights, grumbling. “I didn't want to get stuck in the morning traffic.”

Jonathan nodded as if he understood.

Damian pressed a hand to Jonathan's chest, pushing him back against the seat. “Don't move too much. I don't want to get noticed.”

“Why?” Jonathan pressed himself against the side, trying to disappear. “Is my Great Grandmother—…?”

“No,” Damian turned the wheel quickly, slipping into another gap in the traffic. “If the police catch me, it's not the end of the world, but it'll be harder to do things later on.” Damian snapped something in a language Jonathan didn't understand.

“You're breaking the law?” Jonathan mumbled. He felt fear rise in his stomach. Breaking the law was something villains did, something that was horrible and terrible and would send you straight to hell.

“Yes,” Damian glared at the traffic. “If I waited until I was old enough to drive…”

Jonathan shuddered. All those years of being shut in the chapel… he didn't think he'd survive last night, let alone all that. He couldn't condemn Damian. “How did you know?”

Damian gave him a grim smile. He jerked out of the traffic suddenly, swooping up a long earth road.

A house appeared suddenly, as if a covering had been whipped away.

Jonathan gasped. The house on the hill was like a castle.

It was huge and beautifully crafted. It was hard to believe it was real, it was so big. Jonathan just kept staring, waiting for it to disappear.

Damian seemed to relax, slipping out of the car to jab at the wall.

“Open the gates,” Damian mumbled. Jonathan thought Damian was talking to him until a voice crackled through the wall.

“Young Master Damian?” The voice asked. It was old, and tinged with a British accent. “Of course,” The gates whirred and opened slowly, “Your parents aren't particularly happy with your behaviour. They've stayed home in order to deal with you immediately.”

Damian winced, and ducked back into the car.

Jonathan wondered if the rule about being unnoticed still stood. He tried to look inconspicuous, curled up against the door. His neck ached, and his heart felt very, very heavy.

Damian ground to a halt in front of the manor. He opened the car door and crept out, nervously.

“Damian.” Thomas Wayne commanded full attention, without raising his voice.

Damian winced, and curled a hand around the door. “Sorry, but I had to, it was—”

“Who's that?” Martha Wayne leapt from the stairs, hurrying over to the car. She pulled opened the door and looked down at Jonathan's small, wounded face. “Oh my goodness, he's hurt.”

“What?” Thomas rushed after his wife. “Who's that? Come on, you'd both better come inside.”

Jonathan allowed himself to be bundled inside the huge building, both him and Damian were hurried to a study. It all felt a bit unreal, like any moment he'd wake and be home again, and all this would disappear.

“What happened?” Thomas demanded, gesturing for them to sit down. His patience was thinning—he'd had to take the day off work for this, and that always put him on edge.

“I had to leave,” Damian said as his father inspected Jonathan's wounds. “You wouldn't have believed me. I needed to save him from the chapel.”

“You should have at least told us. We were worried about you, Damian,” Thomas grumbled, lifting Jonathan's hair. “Martha, the antiseptic.” Martha passed him a cotton ball soaked in antiseptic. “This will sting, son, but it'll be better in the end. Can you stay still for me?”

Jonathan nodded numbly.

Thomas washed the scratches and dabbed them with the cotton ball. Most of them weren't deep enough for stitches, but a few of them were. “What happened?”

“Crows. His Great Grandmother made chemicals from wild fowl pheromones and herbs. It enrages the birds and they attack anything with the scent.” Damian straighten his shirt. “I couldn't just leave him there.”

“How did you know where he was? Why didn't you alert the police?” Thomas glared at Jonathan's arm as he wrapped it in bandages, and the poor child shrunk back.

Damian was silent.

“You can't just steal the car as soon as you want to play hero.” Thomas fixed his son with a stern glare. “It's unacceptable, not to mention illegal. You mustn't do it again, under any circumstances.”

Damian nodded.

“Let's see your wounds.” Thomas beckoned his son closer.

Claw marks littered Damian's hands, a few nasty ones on the back of his wrists. There was one above his eye that would scar. He treated him in silence.

Jonathan ran a hand over his fresh bandages. He was waiting for someone to pick him by his collar and send him back to his Great Grandmother, and for it all to start again. Maybe worse. He huddled in his chair, casting scared glances around the room.

Thomas sighed, straightening up. “This is serious, Damian. You're not old enough to drive, I have no idea where you learned to, to be honest. You could have gotten yourself—both of you—could have been killed. You can't just take off in the middle of the night without telling us.”

Damian nodded.

Thomas glanced at his wife, and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Both of you go and rest up. We'll talk more on this when everyone's had some sleep.”

Damian tugged Jonathan with him, darting up the stairs.

Thomas watched him go.

His face felt heavy, and he was at a complete loss of what to do. Damian wasn't some misbehaving brat. He couldn't just take his television or snack privileges, the boy didn't like television and preferred chopped carrots to chocolate cookies. He was more like a miniature adult than any child Thomas had ever met, serious and far too secretive for his own good.

The boy had planned this, down to the flu he'd faked well enough to fool a trained surgeon, and had taken off in an instant, without even alerting Alfred.

“I'm worried about him,” Martha said, softly.

Thomas nodded, and began to pack away his equipment. “Don't worry too much, my love. He's strong.”

“I know he's strong. It's just that...” Martha sighed, words escaping her for a moment. She watched the clock's hands move gently in the dark morning. “...I'm worried that when he finally does hit something that takes him down… he won't know how to get back up again.”

 

*

 

Jonathan blinked, looking around the room. It was dark but he could still see it was magnificent.

The bed was huge, bigger than his whole room back home. The sheets were soft to the touch. His hands shook.

“Go to sleep.” Damian mumbled, pushed him towards the bed. “I'm going to stay in here too.”

Jonathan slipped under the sheets. The bed was heavenly, sucking at his conscious. He sat up, suddenly scared.

“Don't worry,” Damian dragged spare sheets from the cupboard, curling up on the dark red sofa seat on the end of the bed. “She can't get you here.”

Jonathan shrunk back into he covers. Fear still rumbled in him, ever-present, like a scar on his heart. He was a coward, but he couldn't be anything else. It was inescapable.

Damian's eyes didn't shine in the dim light. They were very, very dark. He leant over the back of the sofa, gaze sharp.

“I'm afraid.” Jonathan muttered shamefully. “I hate being scared. But...”

Damian watched him with indescribable gentleness. His hands curled into the soft sheets. “It's okay...” Damian murmured, breath barely ghosting his lips, “...to be scared.”

Jonathan nodded, feeling fear rise like a sickness in him. It sloshed inside his chest, poisoning him.

Damian nodded too, sharply. “Go to sleep, Crane.”

 

*

 

There was a strange boy at the table.

Bruce stopped outside the kitchen, not a hair of him crossing the threshold.

He was young and gangly, arms too long for him, moving hesitantly. He was pale and his eyes were wide, jerking his head at any noise like he was deciding whether or not to bolt. He kept his elbows to his sides, trying to be overlooked.

Damian sat next to him, relaxed and silent. Occasionally he would offer the boy something and the boy would either shake or nod quickly, but apart from that he mostly ignored him. Damian's eyes were ringed with blue-black, and his face was a little grimmer than usual.

Bruce glanced around the kitchen. He couldn't see his parents, which wasn't unusual, but he felt at a loss.

“Come in, Bruce,” Damian grumbled, shooting him a glare.

Bruce flushed, and slunk in to the kitchen, sitting down heavily across from his older brother. He hated Damian's glares, they were always more piercing that his father's or his teacher's. He had the distinct feeling that if he ignored his brother's glare, something very sudden and very unfortunate was going to happen.

Bruce glanced at the strange boy, who ducked his face away.

“He's Jonathan Crane,” Damian said, shortly.

The boy smiled weakly. “It's nice to meet you, Bruce.”

Bruce nodded, automatically. “It's nice to meet you too. Are you… staying here?”

Worry flashed in the boy's eyes, “I—”

“For the time being,” Damian interrupted. “Until the authorities arrange foster care or a foster home.”

The boy relaxed a little, and shot Damian a soft look. He even smiled, a little.

Bruce watched him, raising an eyebrow. “Well,” Bruce glanced Jonathan up and down, and a grin spreading across his face, “Do you play volleyball, Jonathan?”

 

*

 

“I can't believe it!” Bruce whined, dropping the ball and flinging his arms up. “That's seventh time I've lost!”

“I'm sorry,” Jonathan shrunk back, pulling his arms up to his chest.

“Don't be,” Damian's voice carried across the gym without effort. “He's acting spoilt.”

Bruce jumped, and pouted Damian's way, earning him a snort.

“Whether or not you win is to do with how skilled you are,” Damian scooped the ball from the floor, “And even a fool knows you cannot improve by complaining. It is his fault that he overestimated his own abilities, or underestimated yours.”

Jonathan nodded, giving him a watery smile.

“Perhaps we ought to even things up a little?” Damian's lips quirked upwards in more of a challenge than a smile. “You two against me?”

Bruce ducked under the net, grinning madly. “You're on.”

 

*

 

Damian's eyebrows lifted. “Is that—?”

“Don't tell dad!” Bruce orders quickly, stuffing the lump back under his blazer.

Damian watched the tail wag gently from the hem of Bruce's blazer. He had no idea what to say.

Bruce took his silence as disapproval, and a deeply pained expression etched itself on his face. “It just looked so cold and sad, and we have so much room here, and he wouldn't be any trouble, really.”

Damian peeks down at the dog, frowning at how muddy and bedraggled the poor thing looked.

“Don't be like that, Dami!” Bruce whined, “You brought Jon home! This's just a dog!”

Damian scowled. “Crane's not a pet, Bruce.”

Bruce's indignation grew, “But—”

“Anyway!” Damian snapped, “I do want a dog.”

Bruce blinked. “Oh.”

Damian hooked an arm around the blazer to scrub at the mutt’s forehead. “What're you going to call him?”

Bruce beamed. “Woof.”

Damian gave him a flat look. “What about something classical? Julius? Apollo?”

“That's so boring.” Bruce announced and shuffled away, resting the dog on his hip. “Doggie? Poodles?”

“It's not even a poodle,” Damian scowled. “Anyway, how is 'Woof' and 'Doggie' more interesting than Julius or Apollo?”

“You should call him Ace,” a small voice suggests.

Damian glanced over, blinking at the Jonathan's appearance. He had a way of moving without making any sound at all. Either that, or Damian was seriously out of practice. He didn't know which one worried him more.

“Yeah!” Bruce grinned. He lifted the dog up, who barked excitedly. “Do you like that, Ace? Huh?”

The little dog wagged his tail like he was trying to break the sound barrier.

 

*

 

“Wow, an A+!” Bruce leant over the table, snatching Jonathan's test results from under his nose. “I can barely scrape a C!”

Jonathan flushed and nodded into his soup. He was glad the foster home let him come over for weekends every once in a while. It was strange, but nice. Almost like an actual family. Jonathan glanced over at Damian, who graces him with a smile that only made him blush harder.

Thomas Wayne half-stood, trying to peer over at the results. “What's this in?”

“Chemistry. I've got one in Biology too.” Jonathan ate more of his soup, to avoid any other questions.

Thomas Wayne nodded firmly, approval lighting his dark eyes. “That's impressive, Jonathan. Have you considered a career in medicine?”

 

*

 

“Do you like it?” Martha leant over her son's shoulder, running a hand over the silky, manicured wood.

Damian's eyes ghosted over the beautiful piano. It was so elegant, so smooth and beautiful. It was almost sacrilege to touch it.

Martha smiled softly when she saw her son's expression. “I'll phone the tutor in the morning.”

 

*

 

Damian felt the rain on his back and takes a breath.

It was cold, stinging sharply on his fingers and cheeks. It ran rivers down his face, cold and heavy on his face, like a freezing second skin. It wasn't refreshing, or cleansing. Rain in Gotham never was.

The horizon blurred like welling tears, colours ran together at the edges. The graveyard was empty, even the ghosts had retreated to their coffins. It was no place for young boys to be alone, but Damian can think of worse places.

It was the first time in months he was been allowed to walk Gotham alone. At a loss of what to ban him from, he was grounded. Of course, it wasn't until they grounded him that he actually wanted to leave.

The grass sucked at his feet, sodden and disgusting. In the rain, it bled a grey-brown, like the rest of the city. But Damian wasn't looking at the grass.

He had been here before, in a different world, a lifetime ago.

The graves were of a young, talentless budding actress and her fifteen-year-old son. A car crash.

This was where Thomas and Martha's graves would have rested.

Damian left a bundle of white roses in the soaking grass. Old habits, he supposed.


	3. God Save Us From The Queen

“Have some champagne,” Bruce insisted, leaning over the pristine white table cloth. “It's your party.”

Damian shifted uneasily. He glanced across the hall, and frowned to find it, predictably, still full of people. “I don't like alcohol.” He muttered.

“C'mon, Dami,” Bruce huffed, long used to the battles he had to wage to get his brother to loosen up. “You worked hard for this promotion. Commissioner at 24!”

Damian nodded, hesitantly. He had worked hard. It hadn't been easy, but he had been born a soldier, he was used to the pressure, even thrived under it. In the beginning, the department had downplayed his involvement, even patronised him. Even when his immediate superiors saw, the higher ups didn't quite believe it.

So he'd worked more publicly, played things faster and looser than he'd liked, drawn the press into things. He was no longer Damian Wayne, the naïve but amiable rich boy, trying his best, but Damian Wayne, the rising star of the GCPD, efficient and righteous. He'd embarrassed the department into promoting him, and he'd shot through the ranks, until he was here, at the top of the shinning pile.

On the wrong day.

Damian dug his hands into his pockets, curling his fingers around the ticket. Haley's circus, this evening.

Damian had hoped and asked for a small affair, but Bruce was not born into the right world to understand, had never preferred solitude over company in all the twenty-two years he'd lived. To Bruce, a small affair was one where they didn't throw open the gates and invite every homeless person or wandering kid in for a drink and some finger foods.

As the afternoon wore on, the celebration swelled, everybody wanted to talk to or about Damian, like moths around a light, fluttering and throwing themselves at him. He'd managed to throw off the worst of them, but his nerves were frazzled.

“Hey, Damian?” Bruce peered at his brother. “Did you hear anything of what I just said? Hey?”

He had four hours until the Flying Graysons would perform their final trick. And he was stuck in piles of red tape.

Damian grunted. “I don't feel well. If you need me, I'll be in the gym.”

 

*

 

Damian Wayne was a beautiful man.

Not simply handsome, but beautiful in a way many men couldn't pull off. His features were fine and perfectly balanced, powdered, baby blue eyes behind long dark lashes. A long nose and high, arching brows. Cheekbones sharp enough to be a safety hazard.

Body chiselled like a marble statue.

Selina smiled.

Damian was unlike any other man in Gotham, that was for sure. Perhaps the world. It wasn't just the power coiled in his dark limbs, or even the allure of the scars that carved up his body. It was the sharpness of his eyes. The wicked intelligence. Nothing like that air-head of a brother of his.

He flipped into a roll, and landed squarely. “Kyle,” He greeted, hesitantly.

“Mr. Wayne,” She smiled, the first real one that afternoon. “Odd to find you down here, when you could be enjoying the party.”

Damian scooped a towel from the floor and scrubbed his face. Selina enjoyed the curve of his spine. “I didn't feel very well. Exercising clears my head.”

Selina watched him tug on a shirt, feel only a little shameless. It was still Gotham, after all, even if the GCPD were cleaning things up. They'd all done worse things.

“Did you want something, Kyle?” Damian grumbled.

Selina raised an eyebrow. “I've been dying for a dance with the rising star all evening.”

“I'll send flowers.” Damian glared, pushing past her.

Selina watched him go, breathing out a sigh. There was playing hard to get, and there was outright rejection. And unlike some rather smelly men she's met, she knew the difference. She leant on the door-frame, watching him disappear around the corner.

“It's not you, you know.” A small voice mumbled.

Selina darted around. Jonathan Crane, the miracle doctor, of all people, stepped out of the shadows. She frowned. “No one's incapable of love.”

“Oh, he loves a lot of people. He loves his family, he loves his friends.” Jonathan gave her an awkward smile. “He definitely respects you a lot, might even love you too. But not like that. Not in the way you want him to.”

Selina softened. She knew a confession when she heard one. “You can't blame a girl for trying.”

Jonathan laughed, a small, scratchy sound. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Selina raised an eyebrow.

Jonathan grinned, and he had a kind of gawky charm. “Call it survivor's guilt.”

Selina grinned back, straightening her skirt. “I don't give up that easily. Thanks for the warning, doc, but I've got a plan.”

Jonathan smiled, and tipped his head in her direction. “Good luck.”

 

*

 

A hand snatched the back of Damian's coat and he was halfway through throwing them over his shoulder when he recognised the slightly flushed face. “Bruce?!”

“Damian!” Bruce huffed, gripping Damian's hood tightly. At least a small amount of his sneakiness must be natural, and it still surprised him every time. It always took Damian a little longer to link Bruce with the batman, or at least the template to fill the mantel. No wonder nobody connected his father to the bat, way back when.

Damian glared. “What are you doing here?”

“Me? What are you doing here! We're celebrating, Damian! You've got to come back to the party, the strippers are going to come out of the cake!” Bruce stage-whispered, coming closer than his brother would like.

Damian winced. “-tt-. No thanks.”

Bruce snorted, and glanced around Gotham's square. It was nearly empty. The evening was a thick, dark grey and smelt like car oil. Like most of the Waynes, Bruce stayed as far away from Gotham city centre or the suburbs as he could. He wasn't like the Gothamites that skulked the city streets in the dark, he was a different animal entirely.

Damian breathed out a cloud. It was getting cold, this time of year.

“Why're you here anyway?” Bruce jogged to keep up with his brother, trying to stick close. Damian was the native here.

Damian drove an elbow into his ribs, glaring. “I don't like crowds. Is that a crime now?”

Bruce whined and jumped back. “You should have said! I wouldn't have invited so many people.”

“I did say,” Damian snapped. He huffed and pulled his jacket closer.

“C'mon Damian,” Bruce shifted closer again, and Damian's elbow itched to break a few bones while he was at it. “Let me come too! I won't drag you back to the party, and I'll say we were doing something important, like secret police business.”

Damian glared at the ground, face twisting to something bitter. The worry and expectation darkened his mood. “Police business isn't secret.”

“Please, Dami,” Bruce whined.

Damian relented, fishing out a ticket from his pocket and stuffing it in Bruce's hands. He'd bought five, just in case.

“The… circus?” Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Oh! I know this one! This is the one you bought a while ago!”

Damian nodded, stiffly.

“Why today, though? It says they've been performing for almost a week now.”

Damian shifted his shoulders. “The tickets are just to get us inside. Someone's going to tamper with the trapeze, because Mr. Haley won't agree to their demands. I need to warn him.”

“Wow,” Bruce held the ticket up to the light. “So it is secret police business.”

“...I suppose.” Damian glanced around the street again, scanning it over and over. There was nobody there, but he couldn't shake the feeling he was being watched. That would be the end of things, or at least a wrench thrown in the works. He couldn't deal with inconsistencies. Not tonight. Not with this much at stake.

“It's in about half an hour,” Bruce slipped his pocket watch back into his coat pocket. “Why don't we go get something to eat? Or to drink…?”

“No, I—” Damian's phone burst into life, a short, metallic melody. Cursing, he fished it out, ducking away from Bruce to answer it.

Bruce stood awkwardly, waiting for his brother to finish. It was cold, and he doesn't like the smell in the air. It makes him uneasy. He would be a lot happier with a drink in his hand, that was for sure.

Damian stepped out of the shadows, emotions churning through his features. He half-glanced up at Bruce and glowered at the floor, flipping his phone away. “Can you—tt-... I fucking hate Grogan,” His face soured and he straightened up, glaring fiercely at the skyline. “Can you go to the circus and talk to Mr. Haley?”

Bruce nodded, “Of course.”

“Tell him you're Damian's brother and you've come to confirm what we spoke about on the phone. Tell him Zucco's tampered with the Trapeze. Tell him to check it, thoroughly.” Damian snapped, fixing Bruce with a sharp look.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bruce grinned. “I got it.”

Damian snatched his brother by the lapels, bringing them nose to nose. Damian was taller that him by a few inches even now, glaring down with fire in his eyes. “I'm serious, Bruce!” He snarled. “This is very important.”

Bruce nodded, trying to look dependable. “I've got it.”

Damian released him, hesitantly. His gaze flickered nervously around Bruce's face.

Bruce grinned. “Honestly. You worry too much, bro. Consider it done.”

 

*

 

You know what they say about Diamonds and girls.

Catwoman slipped through the lasers like water, twisting around the beams and standing, triumphantly, in front of the glowing crest of diamonds, beautiful as they were hideously expensive. She reached for them, just as the gunshot sounded.

She jerked back, one hand flying to her whip as the glass shattered.

It was a simple flip, and she was in the darkness again, gunshots cracking the cement. The lasers forgotten, she skidded to the walls. The skylight shattered, floor split open with bullet holes. They were on the roof. She cursed.

She'd have to use the front door. Oh, irony.

Catwoman rocketed down the corridor, alarms screaming from the corners, shaking the walls. She burst through the front doors, tasting freedom for a glorious second.

Someone tackled her and she collided with the ground. Hard.

She was cuffed in a matter of heartbeats. She could feel whoever it was, pinning her to the ground, but she wasn't about to struggle to look. At least if she didn't know, she could imagine it wasn't some fat old police officer.

“That wasn't much of a fight.” She muttered, sourly.

“I'm sorry,” A familiar voice drawled, lifting off her. “I know you've been dying for a dance.”

Catwoman turned, breathing softly. Damian Wayne lifted a hand, gently prising the goggles from her face and pushing back her hood. Without the orange tint, his gaze looked almost nostalgic.

Oh, hell. She was in deeper than she'd thought. “You knew,” She smiled.

“I've known for a long time.” Damian opened the police car's door with a soft click. He pushed her inside, head down. His voice sounded slightly strained. “It was nice of you to make it easy.”

The car door closed, and the car rolled softly away.

Whatever soft nostalgic feelings had turned in his gut vanished in an instant. Damian rounded on Jack Grogan.

“What the hell, Grogan!” He snapped. “Don't call me every time you need help wiping your ass.”

“Commissioner!” Grogan yelped, startled. “Catwoman has been a serial—”

“-tt-,” Damian stormed away. “Don't call me again tonight.”

Grogan jogged after him, “But commissioner—”

“You're on clean-up, Grogan.” Damian shot him a glare that could turn him to stone. “Get out of my sight.”

The door slammed in his face.

 

*

 

Bruce Wayne was having a good time.

There was a rather lovely woman pouring him some wine, another couple lovely women on either side, and the food was good too, he supposed. Lobster and caviar wasn't really his thing, but the woman serving had fluttered her eyelashes and it had seemed like such a good idea at the time.

The new bar was high end, the first proper high-class place Gotham had been able to afford, and it wasted no time putting on a delicate front. The soft Persian rugs and gilded gold walls gave it an almost stately air, like the kings of old.

Bruce looped an arm around the young blonde on his right, and breathed out deeply. Life was good.

Damian crashed through the door like thunder.

Bruce shied away from the thick waves of rage that rolled from him. The air seemed thinner, and Bruce could hardly breathe.

It was strange, seeing his brother in a place like this. His brother, rough and angry and raw, frayed trench-coat soaked in black rain, edges sharp against the pale finery. It contrasted sharply, the real Gotham and the Gotham they wrote about on brochures. The old and the new.

Damian snatched the front of Bruce's coat and dragged him forwards, ignoring the shouts of surprise from the girls. His eyes were dark with fury.

Bruce stared up into them and shuddered in fear. It was like looking into the face of a vengeful God.

“Mary and John Grayson are dead.” Damian said. “Their twelve-year-old son is an orphan.”

Bruce stilled. His heart sank slowly. “...oh.”

Damian glared.

Bruce shrunk back, awkwardly. “I'm sorr—”

Damian punched him.

 

*

 

Dick swung his legs, watching the secretary fill out forms and talk quietly on the phone through the small glass window.

The clock said it was nearing twelve, but he didn't feel tired. He didn't feel much of anything.

It was cold. It sunk inside his stomach, numbness threading his chest. His parents were dead.

They were dead. For real. It wasn't a prank or a nasty joke, it wasn't a bad dream or some kind of fever hallucination. They were dead.

Dick turned the page. It was a children's book, a small animal getting lost in the snow and trying to find its way back. He stared at the page, eyes unfocused.

“Gra—…”

Dick's head jerked up at the sound.

It was the police commissioner. He was as young as they said, broad-shouldered and fresh faced, but they hadn't said anything about his eyes. They were not the eyes of a young man.

“Dick...?” The commissioner said. “I'm Damian.”

Dick nodded, stiffly.

“I'm sorry about your parents.” The commissioner said.

Dick nodded and nodded. He wondered idly if all this nodding would make his head roll off.

“It was my fault.” The commissioner said.

Dick stopped nodding.

“I entrusted the mission to someone… inexperienced, due to a complication. I was called away. By the time I came back...”

Dick stared. “You knew…?”

The commissioner nodded.

Dick's stare heated. “You knew, and you did nothing…!”

The commissioner looked at him.

Dick felt his anger die. There was something in the commissioner's eyes, some old sadness. It was the first real look he'd gotten all evening. There was nothing fake. It was the truth he'd wanted.

Dick's gaze dropped to the table. To the little lost dog.

“That's why...” The commissioner's voice was hesitant. Unsure.

Dick looked up into a softened face.

“I wondered if you'd do me the honour… of becoming a Wayne.”

 

*

 

June gave way to July, and one morning Damian returned home so late, he actually caught Dick eating breakfast.

Dick said something, in greeting.

Damian felt heavy, thick boned and leaden, half-collapsing onto the dining room chair. Alfred bustled about making tea or coffee or something, but he could hardly follow him.

“Hey?” Dick said, “Did you even hear me, old man?”

Damian couldn't bring himself to answer. His mind buzzed too fast and his thoughts trickled too slowly. He was tired.

How long had it been, now? It felt like decades since he had been at ease. He had never felt that Commissioner Gordan's job was easy, per se, but it had never seemed particularly hard. When he was much younger, a life time ago, he had scoffed at Jim, for hiding behind the law. Abiding by rules and regulations in order to keep his hands clean. But it wasn't like that. It wasn't like that at all.

They'd fished a girl out of the docks, yesterday. Three years old.

Damian watched half-aware as Dick leant across the table and plucked the letter from where it stuck out his coat.

He moved slowly, so Damian could have objected or batted his hand away, but he couldn't move. His arms were useless, and besides, he wasn't even sure he wanted to move.

Dick lifted the brown envelope and set it down in front of his cereal. “To Richard, Bruce, Alfred, Cassandra, Stephanie, Barbara, Tim and Jason.” He read, running a light finger over the names. “That's a lot of people.”

Damian said nothing, setting his arms on the table. His eyes stung a little, but he was too tired to weep. Besides, he had already done his fair share of crying.

He wrote _To Richard_ first, adding _Bruce_ after a moment's pause. _Alfred_ , had been a formality, tacked on the end after his father's name without a real thought. _Cassandra, Stephanie, Barbara_ , he wrote the next day, in one burst of feeling. _Tim and Jason_ came a week later, in different ink, after it had boiled at the back of his mind for days.

“Who are they?” Dick asked quietly.

Damian breathed deeply.

“Bruce, that's not Bruce-Bruce, you know, your brother?” Dick asked, “Bruce Wayne?”

“Different man,” Damian said shortly. It wasn't even a lie, not any more. In all but name, they were nothing alike. It was a victory, but one that had lost its shine.

“And Richard's not me,” Dick nodded. “Obviously.”

Damian tried to make a non-committal hum, but it came out as a sort of huff of air.

Dick held it up to the light, straining. There were wads of something. “Are there cards in there?”

“Photographs.” Damian murmured.

“Photographs?” Dick repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“Perhaps it would be best not to bother Master Damian about it, Young Master Richard,” Alfred turned the corner, tray laden with tea and a few cream crackers. “Or, at least, bother him at a different time.”

Dick grinned sheepishly, sliding the envelope back across the table.

Damian scooped it up with another sigh, holding it fondly. It had been years. Once or twice, he'd slip in a new photograph. Ever so often the envelope would get too tatty, and he'd reseal it in a different one, fresh and new again. The edges of this one were getting fuzzy and torn a little, he'd have to change it soon.

He didn't know why he even kept it around. Sentiment, maybe. It had been a long time since he'd daydreamed about one of them, usually Dick, finding him again. You usually run out of fantasies after twelve years.

Damian ran a thumb over the join in the paper. Sometimes, although never for very long, he'd wonder if it had all been a dream. He'd spent more time here, in the past, than he had in the future.

“So, who are they, actually?” Dick whispered, after Alfred was out of earshot.

Damian smiled, tiredly, slipping the envelope back into his coat. “Family.”

*

 

“What're we looking at?” Damian asked.

“A bigass house.” His chief of police, Sanders grumbled.

“I can see that,” Damian raised a dark eyebrow. “Why're we looking at it?”

Sanders shrugged. “We don't know yet. Had a neighbours hear a disturbance around three AM, and when we arrived there was no door anymore.”

Damian swept his gaze over the scene.

It was the posh part of Gotham, nice houses with bright green gardens, white picket fences and brightly painted mailboxes. The house directly in front of them was a nice, pale beige, fresh wood panelling and clean windows.

Damian had seen a lot of torn-off doors in his lifetime, but seeing this one was almost… sad. It was like a fresh bright face that was missing an eye. He scowled. He was getting too sentimental.

Cheap job. The door's hinges were clumsily bashed in, the window smashed. There was even snatches of fabric caught in the shards.

“Sorry for draggin' you out here,” Sanders shrugged her shoulders a little. In the dim lighting she looked much older than she was. “I shouldn't be here either. Grogan's getting a little jumpy with the pager again, I guess.”

“It's okay,” Damian glanced back at her. “Do we know anything else?”

“Yeah, there's one more thing,” Sanders dug her notebook out of her trench coat. “Witness said the intruder was wearing a costume.”

“What kind of costume?”

“Red fish-bowl kind of thing and a suit of some kind.” Sanders flipped through her notebook.

Red hood. The original one. Not the Joker yet, but soon.

“It sounds like they're taking after all these crazy costumed freaks running around, making fools of themselves. We might even get a hero of ourselves, one of these days. Can you imagine that?” Sanders put her notebook away, “A costumed hero in Gotham.”

Damian grinned humourlessly, “I've got a hunch,” He said, walking towards the car.

“Oh yeah?” Sanders followed him, “Fancy filling me in?”

“Let's check this place out first,” Damian opened the car door, “After you?”

Sanders got in reluctantly, “Look, you've gotta tell us something sometimes. This ain't a cop drama. You don't need to keep the air of suspense.”

Damian shimmied into the driver's seat and closed the door behind him, “I don't have to. But it's more fun that way.”

“Right,” Sanders grumbled, “More fun.”

Damian drove deeper into the city.

The streets around him shifted restlessly, the dazzling beacons of light leaving spots in Damian's vision. The city was thick, dark shadows spilling onto the brilliantly lit streets. Even after all his effots, time had blackened it. Not as badly as it had before, but age had made it ugly. It had made them all ugly.

“Y'know, sometimes I feel like you're the only real cop on the force,” Sanders said. “Sometimes you just seem to know what you're doing, even if nobody else does.”

Damian said nothing.

Sanders goes to say something else, but it ended up just empty air.

Damian turned his attention back to the road.

He did know what he was doing. He was an old hand at preventing villains from developing by now. Harleen Quinzel received a transfer, Matt Hagen received a teaching position, the boy who would be bane was broken out of Pena Duro when it was raided by police. Floyd Lawton had been in Blackgate for months, and Selina Kyle had been out of jail for a couple of years now, although she enjoyed spending long periods of time around Wayne manor.

The chemical factory loomed, pushed between two huge skyscrapers. The high windows glowed like twenty lime green eyes.

Damian stopped the car, and move silently into the alley.

There was a thump and a flutter of a cape, and a long-armed figure was struggling with the door. The fishbowl head bumped clumsily as he turned, caught sight of the car and dedoubled his efforts, tugging frantically at the door's handle.

The door swung open suddenly and the man darted inside, long limbs like a spider.

A shot rang out.

The man fell like a deer, limbs clattering around him, head rolling. Dark blood slicked the tiles, his fishbowl helmet cracked against the doorframe, thick ruby glass splintering. The man howled, clutching at his knee, while Sanders dragged his hands behind his back, slippery with blood.

Damian just watched.

It was quick. It was like that sometimes. All it took was a moment, a split-second decision, and the world righted itself.

“Not exactly what I'd call regulation,” Sanders grumbled as the door swung shut on the Perp.

Damian gritted his teeth, but said nothing.

 

*

 

The bathroom light was waxy and pale, both too bright and too dim at the same time. It was too large, too, but that, at least, he had made his peace with. Damian leaned on the sink, staring himself in the eye.

Damian didn't age regally, in light touches of grey at the temples and a more sophisticated air to his voice. Instead, he greyed like a wolf, pitch hair dappling with silver. His honey-coloured face gristled, weathering unevenly, like the wheels of an old cart.

His skin had toughened, he'd noticed. His scars were all old now, stretching awkwardly as his body grew, thick lines of scar tissue. He was used to them, though. He ran a finger down the length of his breast bone, the scar there like a cable. He dropped his hand back against the enamel.

Damian leant back, features relaxing a little.

Maybe he was just imagining it, but there was something tender in his face. Something worn loose by age. A warmth in his knowing smile.

 

*

 

Dick hit the mats with a heavy smack, landing awkwardly. That was better. It had been months since he'd had the nerves to attempt that flip, and while the landing needed work he'd done all four spins mid-air. Out of practice, his instinct to right himself after the third was playing havoc with his balance.

He took a breath, stretching his legs.

It was late. He had stopped pretending he wasn't waiting for Damian to come home, and had started practising to fill his time.

He straightened up, glancing down at his watch. Maybe it was a little too late… Damian always taught him something when he returned home, no matter the hour, but when it got later the commissioner got super cranky and wasn't really much fun to be around.

“Young master Dick?” Alfred opened the door, letting light spill into the dark gym. “Master Damian has returned.”

Dick beamed. “Alright, thanks Alfred.”

Damian stood in the hallway like a ghost.

Damian's long trench coat was split through with orange and yellow from the lamplight. His gaze was unfocused, drifted over to Dick without registering him.

Oh. It was one of those nights. “Damian…?” Dick asked, taking a hesitant step forward. “Commissioner?”

Damian blinked, and moved softly through to the dinning room, silent.

“Hey? Hey, Damian?” Dick asked, catching the back of Damian's coat.

“Yes?” Damian asked, and his eyes were sharper, more focussed. Normal.

“Oh, good.” Dick grinned. “You're still with us.”

Damian nodded, vaguely. He shook his head slightly. “You'd think after thirteen years I'd be used to it.”

Dick's attention snapped up. “Used to what?”

Damian shrugged, and scooped the meal from the table, popping it in the microwave.

“C'mon, Damian.” Dick scooted into a chair. “Most parents tell their kids something about them. Like, bonding through shared experiences. I don't know anything about you. At all.”

Damian said nothing.

“Like, why won't you let me call you dad?”

Damian sighed. “I'm not your dad.”

Dick rolled his eyes. It had been about three years since his parents died, and while he was still weak from it, he sometimes wondered if Damian took it harder than he did. “You're basically my dad. At least legally.”

Damian grunted, staring down his meal like his gaze could make it cook faster.

“Ok. Question time.” Dick leant over the table.

“Now?” Damian raised an eyebrow.

“Now's a good a time as any. Plus, I never really see you any other time, because of your job and all.”

Damian winced, pulling his meal out of the microwave.

“Who were your parents? What were they like?” Dick asked.

Damian choked on his food, swallowing quickly. He glared. “I don't see why it's any of your business.” He snapped.

“Whoa, calm down.” Dick raised his hands in a calming motion. “I didn't mean anything by it.”

Damian went back to his food.

“C'mon, Damian.” Dick spread out across the table, fixing him with his puppy-eyes.

Damian tried to ignore him, munching determinedly.

“Come on...” Dick whined, “...dad.”

Damian glanced away, embarrassed. “...Fine.” He huffed.

Dick waited expectantly.

“I was raised by my mother to kill my father and take his legacy,” Damian said quickly, like he would lose his nerve. “When I rejected my mother's views, she disowned me. My father... died a while ago. My mother attempted kill me through others. I managed to survive, but she's...”

Dick stared. He tried to think of something to say, but there wasn't much. “...oh wow.”

Damian shovelled food in his mouth.

“So, your mom was like…?” Dick frowned, “A mob boss or something?”

Damian shrugged.

“Raised to kill, though, that's rough,” Dick mumbled. Suddenly spilling secrets didn't seem so fun. “I guess that explains your martial arts skills.”

Damian chewed and swallowed. He ate like a moment without food in his mouth was a moment wasted.

“I'm glad you told me,” Dick grinned. “Alfred told me you wouldn't even tell Bruce that.”

Damian raised an eyebrow, and swallowed thickly. “Is there anything else you wanted to know?”

Dick sighed. “Not really. That covers all the other questions. Is there anything you want to know about me?”

Damian frowned. “The mobster who killed your parents. Do you want him dead?”

It was like a bomb went off.

Dick struggled for words.

Damian finished his food guiltily. _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_ He'd always wanted to ask Dick that, but he'd never have the chance. This Dick wasn't ready, was still healing, and he'd torn out the stitches. Stupid.

Dick gulped, pulling back. He folded his arms and dropped his gaze to the floor.

“I'm sorry.” Damian said, hesitantly. “I didn't mean to...” He trailed off.

Dick slipped off the chair, offering Damian a half-hearted smile. “It's okay. I… I don't know.”

Damian nodded. “It's okay not to know.”

Dick grinned weakly. “Can you teach me some more Capoeira?”

Damian stood up, dumping his plate in the sink. “You like Capoeira, don't you?”

Dick nodded.

Damian led them into the gym, a small smile on his face. “It's not my speciality, but I do know some more.”

“Master Damian?” Alfred stepped into the hallway. “I'm afraid Capoeira will have to wait.”

Damian glanced up. “What is it, Alfred?”

“The GCPD called and they said Superman has arrived for your meeting.”


	4. Lunch

Damian walked through the GCPD at three in the morning, having been awake for nearly twenty hours, but you wouldn't know it by looking. Lesser souls might shamble like the undead, hair scruffy and speech slurred, but if anything Damian was sharper. His hair was immaculate, his gaze seared the walls as he passed. His stride was strong.

In the early morning air, Damian took a breath.

He remembered the rooftops. His eyes travelled almost lovingly along the sharp corners of the roofs, the black edges and slants. He remembered running. But it had been such a long time ago.

Superman landed gently, soundlessly.

Damian regarded him levelly. He and his father had been great friends, but it was unlikely Bruce and Superman would ever meet. He doubted they'd even like each other.

“Commissioner Wayne,” Superman said warmly. “May I start by saying the justice league is incredibly grateful for all the work you have done shaping up Gotham city. You are a hero in your own right.”

Damian nodded wearily. Compliments from the kryptonian always made him a little queasy. “Thank you, Superman. There is something I wanted to talk to you about, however.”

Superman waited.

“The group of sidekicks you're going to base in Gotham? Move them elsewhere.” Damian snapped.

Superman raised his eyebrows. “But Commissioner, Gotham is an obvious choice! With no intense crime rate thanks to your hard work, and no hero of its own, they will be able to grow confidently into their own people, without being overshadowed by their mentors. They will be able to grow in character.”

It was a physical effort to stop himself from scowling. Damian's forehead wrinkled a little. He could care less about some kid's emotional development, Gotham was his city, god-dammit. “Superman, Gotham is unlike any other city. If you put heroes here, they will be dead within a year.”

“Commissioner.” Superman rounded on him. “The heroes in the team are definitely capable. Whatever superstitions you have about Gotham are unfounded.”

Damian felt a wave of annoyance. He hadn't really expected to get very far with that, to be honest. “Fine. On one condition.”

Superman waited. He didn't even argue that Damian had little to no power over the league, didn't dispute anything. He just waited.

“Allow me to keep an eye on them. The police here work differently from the police in metropolis, some police business can't deal with the interruption of vigilantes.” Damian gritted his teeth. “I'll essentially become their local mentor. I will assign them local missions, but not missions the police are confident they can solve. I'll train them in martial arts, if needs be. And...” Damian buried his hands in his pockets. “...allow me to add one more hero to their ranks.”

Superman nodded sagely. “Of course. I accept.”

 

*

 

“Wow,” Kid Flash beams at the new base. “It's so cool!”

The secret base was hidden under the an old warehouse, in remodelled areas of old sewer. The walls were dark and smooth, the air was chilled and smelt of stone. Computer monitors and an extensive armoury lined the walls. A door lead to a surprisingly welcoming kitchen painted with bright colours and a fully-stocked fridge.

Speedy scowled. “It's Gotham.”

Kid Flash rolls his eyes. “You're so hard to please, Speedy. A whole city, without any heroes or anything, and—does this place have a pool?!”

Aqualad fell into step with Speedy, raising an eyebrow. “What don't you like about Gotham?”

“You mean besides the fact it's a shithole?” Speedy shook his head, “The Justice league is giving us a damn sandbox to play in! Crime here is already solved by the police!”

Kid Flash reappeared, munching on a ham sandwich. “You think too much, Speeds. This is the League's way of telling us they trust us.”

“That's what they want you to think,” Speedy snarled, “Can't you two see what they're doing? This place doesn't have any costumed villains, it's all pretty crime—purse snatchers, shoplifters, embezzlers—this is their way of keeping us occupied while they deal with the real crime! I'm sick of being treated like a child!”

Kid Flash frowned, “Speedy, just—”

“No!” Speedy yelled, “I'm not sticking around to be patronised and wrapped in cotton wool while there are people who need my help!” He threw open the door to the emergency exit, face bright with wild anger, “You two can spend the rest of your lives hoping you'll punch enough small-time thugs for the league to take you seriously but I'm done waiting.”

Kid Flash yelped. “Wait, Speedy—”

“Let him go,” The Gotham City's commissioner of police stepped into the light.

Speedy glared at him.

“It's not a prison. Any of you are free to leave, for whatever reason,” The Commissioner watched Speedy, seriously.

Speedy snarled, slamming the door behind him. The sound echoed hollowly in the dark room.

“Whoa,” A sharp voice echoed above them, “What got his knickers in a twist?”

Kid Flash jumped, scouring the ceiling for the source.

A small boy, early teens at most, kicked his heels in the air, sitting on the top of a loaded bookshelf. His costume was an odd, dark red, lined with black, which clashed unnaturally with the canary-yellow lining of the inside of his cape. His feet were clad in heavy-duty steel-toed boots that shone as he swung them. He grinned down at them.

“Who are you?” Kid Flash asked, hesitantly.

“I'm Robin,” The boy said, “I figured you'd need a Gotham native to show you the ropes.”

“He's part of your team,” The commissioner said.

“He is?” Aqualad looked at the kid sceptically. He seemed too young, too lean to be any good in a fight. There was an edge to his grin Aqualad didn't really like.

“If you want him to be,” The commissioner fished his phone from his pocket, checking it testily. “I'm afraid this'll have to wait. There's a fire at Cadmus industries.”

“We can deal with that,” Aqualad said, quickly.

The commissioner shrugged, “I'll call the force ahead to notify them.”

Robin leapt down from atop the bookshelf, landing soundlessly. His cape fluttered after him as he lead the way to the elevator.

Kid Flash followed hesitantly, Speedy's words still echoing around his head. If a small fire was as exciting as it got in Gotham, he'd have to have words with Barry.

 

*

 

Several hours later, feeling the searing heat of fire around him, ears still ringing from Robin's plastic explosives, Kid Flash changed his mind. If Gotham never got any more 'exciting' than this—he could probably live with it.

 

*

 

“See?” Kid Flash lifted a trembling hand, gesturing to the deep red Gotham night, “...the moon.”

It was beautiful.

Superboy lifted his head to feel the breeze. The sky was a strange shade of red, like a fresh bruise, and the city smelt old and greasy, but even crowded with skyscrapers, the moon was breathtaking. It hung like a milky-white eye, indescribably beautiful.

Something landed behind him and he dragged his gaze away.

“...and Superman,” Kid Flash mumbled, grinning, “Do we keep our promises or what?”

In fact, the whole justice league landed around them, brightly armoured—either figuratively or literally—and with unreadable expressions. In the city's shadows they looked like soldiers, eyes calculating, judging him.

Superboy steeled his nerves, trying to keep his shoulders relaxed. He padded over to Superman who stood, tall and imposing, on the largest piece of rubble. Superboy had no idea what to say, so he simply straightened his suit, the red emblem stark against the white fabric.

Superman's eyes widened, and narrowed.

A few members of the justice league shifted their stances, but their eyes remained as unreadable as ever.

The silence was suddenly too much. Superboy snarled, “I'm superman's clone!”

Superman glared, and looked like he was going to say something, but Wonder woman put a hand on his shoulder.

“Let's discuss this,” she said, voice level and calm, before addressing the group in the centre of the rubble, “Don't go anywhere.”

Superboy watched Superman and the rest of the justice league move into a closer group, and didn't try to listen in. The look Superman had given him… it had chilled him right to the core.

“I'm sorry, this must be pretty rough for you,” the shortest member of the group said, who Superboy remembered was called Robin. The boy put a hand on Superboy's shoulder, “Listen, Superman's just a little surprised, is all. I'm sure he'll warm up to you when he gets over it.”

Superboy nodded vaguely.

Robin watched the knot of Justice league members disintegrate as Superman floated down to the centre of the rubble, expression tight and dark.

Superman settled in front of Superboy and sighed, “We'll—uh… We'll figure something out for you. The league will, I mean. For now… I'd better make sure they get that Blockbuster creature safely to jail.” He turned and shot off into the beautiful sky in a burst of sound.

Superboy watched him leave along with most of the rest of the league, the blockbuster creature following him in a globe of green.

Wonder woman's expression changed but it was gone too quickly to identify. She cleared her throat, glancing back at a dark figure on the edge of the group. “Commissioner, if you would…?”

“Of course,” The Commissioner said, gesturing to the gaggle of young heroes, “Come on, my car is waiting around the back.”

Robin scrambled up the rubble easily, and the rest of them followed a little uneasily. The rest of the league seemed to be dispersing slowly, disappearing one-by-own into the Gotham night. Martian Manhunter cast a long look at the retreating team, before vanishing.

Robin seemed to be buzzing with suppressed energy, tapping his feet and constantly glancing back at the league members until they were finally out of earshot and he burst out—“What an asshole!”

The Commissioner shot him a look, eyebrow raised.

“Come on, back me up, Commissioner!” Robin yelped, “I mean, all due respect, but Superman is totally in the wrong here.”

The Commissioner only shook his head. 

Superboy blinked, shocked.

“Hey!” Kid Flash objected, half-heartedly.

Aqualad sighed a little uncomfortably, “It is probably as you said earlier, he simply hasn't acclimatised to the idea of a clone. I'm sure he will warm up to you, Superboy, when he has adjusted.”

Robin glared, bouncing to the car and throwing open the door. “He still could have been a little kinder,” Robin objected, quieter. They followed him into the car a little awkwardly, clipping themselves in.

The commissioner started the engine quickly and pulled out onto one of Gotham's twisting side-streets. His expression was dark. “Superman's actions aside Cadmus is not an organisation that will stop after this. Even if we arrest every member of the organisation we can find—which, trust me, we will—parts of it will simply go underground. It's not going to be easy to dig it out. We're going to have to be careful.”

Robin leant back in his seat, “What is Cadmus anyway?”

The commissioner shrugged, “We don't know a whole lot about it. It's main purpose is to find countermeasures against the justice league, and it has ties to Lex Luthor.”

“Lex Luthor…?” Robin asked.

“The businessman?” Kid Flash asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“Yes,” The commissioner parked neatly around the back of the old warehouse, and for a moment he was quiet. “Don't trust him.”

They got out in silence and the commissioner tugged a duffel bag from the boot and handed it to Superboy. “Here are some proper clothes. I guessed your size.”

Superboy pulled out a dark jacket, some shirts and a pair of jeans, curiously.

“How did you know?” Robin asked sharply.

“I had a hunch,” The commissioner pressed the secret panel that opened the elevator, “but not enough evidence to go on.”

The elevator opened, but someone else was already inside.

A girl with green skin and red hair stepped out onto the pavement, arms drawn tightly to her side. She gave the commissioner a little wave. “Hello,” She said. “I'm Miss Martian.”

“Hello,” The commissioner replied, “...M'gann, is it?”

“Yes, it is. I was supposed to meet you all in the common room, but...” She pulled her cloak a little tighter around her, “Nobody was there.”

“Yes, J'onn told me,” The commissioner said, “I'm afraid I forgot about you. I trust I can leave you all to get acquainted?”

“What? But you just got here!” Robin yelped.

“Duty calls,” The commissioner smiled sadly at Robin, “I have to put together a press conference about the laboratory burning down.”

Robin huffed and waved him off, while Kid Flash shot him a questioning look.

“Um,” M'gann said, and everyone's attention refocused on her. She flushed. “I'm familiar with everyone here except…?” She looked at Superboy.

“I'm Superboy,” Superboy said, pushing past her and into the elevator, “and I'd like it if you could all leave me alone.”

 

*

 

Kid Flash dropped his bag in the doorway to the kitchen, peering around into the uncomfortable-looking common area. The broad, expensive television was playing some morning show with the volume turned down too low to hear. The alien—M’gann, was it?—was perched on the edge of the pale mint sofa, hands clasped over neatly-arranged knees.

“Whoa, you’re here early,” Kid Flash said, dropping onto the sofa’s armrest.

“I didn’t leave,” M’gann said, keeping her eyes fixed on the smiling presenters.

“Oh,” Kid Flash said, and then, “Oh! I guess you don’t have a house? On earth, I mean.”

“I do,” M’gann said, biting her lip. “I just thought it would be kinder to be around Superboy. I don’t think he’d want to be alone.”

Kid Flash raised his eyebrows, “I didn’t even think about that,” He admitted.

M’gann looked up at him. Her dark, amber eyes looked wet, and she frowned fleetingly before standing suddenly and walking quickly to the kitchen, “I’m making breakfast, do you want some?”

Kid Flash bounded after her, “Yes please!” He beamed. He had already had three helpings of thick porridge for breakfast but he was starting to get hungry again.

 

*

 

After a few attempts at pancakes that ended in minor disasters, Kid Flash made them both a simple cheese sandwich that, by that time, was brunch. They were eating, sitting on the kitchen counter, when Robin poked his head around the door.

“You took your time,” Kid Flash said, around his sandwich, “It’s almost noon.”

“I was in the gym,” Robin said, mildly, “Not trying to win masterchef like you guys.” He glanced up from eyeing the piles of mutated and lumpy mixture, “Nice hair by the way. You two match.”

Kid Flash’s hands flew to his head and felt bare, slightly sticky skin. He’d done it without realising, pushing back his mask when the kitchen got too hot. M’gann hadn’t reacted. He lowered his hands gingerly. There was no going back now. “You should take your mask off too,” He said, firmly.

“Me?” Robin yelped. “That’s not fair! Just because you’re unprofessional we all have to be? Come _on_.”

“Both me and M’gann have!” Kid Flash pointed out, “And Aqualad, and Superboy!”

Robin prickled, “It’s not the same!”

“Why is everyone shouting?” Superboy asked, pushing past Robin into the kitchen. He stopped and sniffed, “And why does it smell so bad in here?”

“It’s nothing,” M’gann chirped, dropping the mixing bowl into the dishwasher, “I’ll sort it out.”

Superboy grunted, throwing the fridge door open and taking out a whole lettuce. He tucked it under his arm, along with the block of cheese from the cutting board.

“You’re taking all that?” Robin asked, sceptically.

Superboy paused, glancing warily between the other three costumed heroes, and nodded.

“Do you even have to eat?” Kid Flash asked, looking enviously at the lettuce. Hunger was starting to prickle in his stomach again. “I thought Superman… photosynthesised or something?”

“I’m not Superman,” Superboy glared, eyebrows knitting together in something between confusion and annoyance, and walking back into the corridor.

The three watched him go.

“Was that all the lettuce?” Kid Flash asked, at last. He opened the fridge hesitantly, and cringed. “It was.”

“What do you care?” Robin asked, perching on the edge of the counter. “You just finished breakfast.”

Kid Flash shrugged, feigning nonchalance.

M’gann scooped the rest of the breakfast tools and arranged them in in the dishwasher, and washed the top of the counter. The smell of ruined mixture lessened, but it was still thick and pervasive. She sighed.

“Good morning, teammates,” Aqualad padded inside the kitchen.

“It’s not really morning anymore,” Robin said, in greeting. He slid off the countertop, and passed Aqualad, “I think I’m going to go train. It’s too crowded in here.”

Aqualad opened the fridge and retrieved a plastic pot of what looked like seaweed—and probably was. When he opened the lid, the kitchen was filled with the sharp smell of salt that washed the scent of breakfast right away.

“God, what is that?” Kid Flash held his nose, eyes watering.

“It’s the staple food of my people,” Aqualad said, with a somewhat dreamy look on his face. “I haven’t eaten any for a good few weeks, so I confess seeing it now makes me a little more hungry than usual. Would you like some?” He held the pot towards Kid Flash, who backed away quickly.

“No thank you!” Kid Flash said, waving his arms. “You know, I think I might leave you to it. M’gann, do you want to come and train with me?”

M’gann woke from her slight daze. “What? Oh, okay,” She lifted off the ground, weaving deftly between then and out, towards the gym.

 

*

 

Kid Flash fell back against the ropes, finding his footing. He launched himself again—only to be thrown back by a flick of M’gann’s hand. He dug his heels into the matt and burst forwards, muscles quivering. This time he was thrown clean out of the square arena, landing flat on his back on the cold stone outside.

“Are you alright?!” M’gann flew to his side, helping him up.

“Thanks...” Kid Flash pressed a hand to his back, wincing. His ego was more severely bruised than his back, if he was honest.

“I’m really sorry,” M’gann said, “I think I put too much push into that one.”

“Maybe a little,” Kid Flash said, weakly. He shrugged her off. “How much… ‘push’ can you do?”

M’gann bit her lip, looking embarrassed. “Oh… a lot more than that.”

Kid Flash groaned.

“You’re just poorly matched,” Robin said, hanging off the ring’s ropes. “Most of the thugs you see in Gotham won’t be Metas.”

“Are you saying you want to go a round with me?” Kid Flash asked, quirking an eyebrow.

Robin grinned, wickedly.

Kid Flash cracked his knuckles. That was what he really needed—a quick win, a little salve on his bruised ego. He vaulted over the ring’s ropes, landing squarely. He began to circle Robin, who lifted his batons to his chest.

Kid Flash burst forward, grabbing a baton to throw it aside—his body froze. Pain seared through his veins, sharp as a blade. He couldn’t move, muscles seizing, grip on the baton vice-tight. The pain stopped suddenly, and he was grateful until the impact of a fist on his jaw knocking him clean off his feet and crashing back into the matt.

It took him a second to recover and then he was shouting—“What the hell, Robin?! You electrocuted me?”

Robin had the decency to look a little sheepish, “I didn’t think you’d fall for it that quickly. It was only half a second.”

“I didn’t know your baton was electrified!” Kid Flash snarled, “How was I supposed to be—!”

“This is Gotham, not Central City!” Robin snapped, “Everyone in Gotham has a—”

“I think it’s time for lunch!” M’gann interrupted sharply. The boys looked at her, startled. “Don’t you?”

Kid Flash bridled, and glanced down. He was feeling hungry, “Yeah, alright.”

The pair followed M’gann into the kitchen.

Kid Flash made a beeline to the fridge, and pulled it open. It was nearly empty. He pulled out half a bottle of milk and a bottle of orange juice. “But—there was fruit in here! Yogurt!”

“There’s no bread any more either,” Robin set the bread box back down.

“If it was Superboy, he should have some left,” M’gann suggested brightly, “I’m sure he will share some.”

Kid Flash frowned. He wasn’t so sure, but the three of them wandered around until they stumbled upon Superboy’s room.

His room was sparse and hotel-like, with a wooden floor painted white and a large mirror above a tall, thick white bed. Superboy was lying on the large bed, surrounded by empty packages. He sat up when they came in, and looked blankly at them.

“So it was you,” Robin said, sourly.

“How could you eat so much?” Kid Flash yelped in disbelief at the empty plastic containers. “I thought only half of you needed to eat!”

“I didn’t eat all of it!” Superboy flushed angrily.

“You didn’t?!” Kid Flash beamed at him, “Can I have the rest? I’m starving.”

Superboy looked away.

“Did any of you see the rest of my meals?” Aqualad appeared at the doorway, “Has someone moved them?”

Superboy scowled at him, “They tasted horrible.”

Robin checked the cupboards and the small mini-fridge, but came up with nothing, “Where is the rest?”

“I threw it away,” Superboy said, sullenly.

“You did what?!” Kid Flash shouted.

“Wally—” M’gann started.

“That’s so wasteful!” Kid Flash groaned, holding his head in his hands. “How could you do that?”

“That was _all_ my food,” Aqualad said, eyes dark.

“I thought I was the only one eating here!” Superboy snapped, jumping off his bed.

“Still...” Robin said, closing the cupboard doors gingerly, “You’ll have to eat tomorrow.”

Superboy glared at him, face bright.

“There’s nothing we can do now,” M’gann said, “We should just contact the commissioner and get him to send more food.”

“M’gann is right,” Aqualad said.

Wally looked over at her, face twisted in a pained expression. Hunger was starting to chew at his stomach, “How long will that take? Won’t we have to go through the League?”

“Not necessarily,” Robin said, tapping at his phone. “I’ve got his number.”

“That was quick,” Kid Flash said.

“I hacked it ages ago,” Robin smirked, not actually lying. He pressed the phone to his ear.

 

*

 

Shrill ringing cut straight through the presentation, and everyone fell silent. The shareholder paused in his speech, looking down the long board table, at the young Wayne scrambling for his phone. His shadow was cut out dark and clean against the power-point presentation projected onto the screen behind him.

Damian glanced at the screen, ears burning. “I’m sorry, it’s my son,” He said, “Please excuse me.”

The shareholder nodded, looking a little amused, and the rest of the board members turned back to the presentation.

Damian ducked into the hallway, pressing his phone to his ear, “Robin, this is a really bad time, and it had better be important.”

“ _I’m sorry_ ,” The voice said, on the other end, “ _We’ve run out of food_.”

Damian let his stony silence speak for itself. He could almost feel Dick’s embarrassment through the line.

Eventually Damian decided to let him loose, “There’s some emergency money strapped to the underside of the kitchen counter,” He said, and hung up.

 

*

 

The package came loose with one hard tug, leaving a strip of masking tape to the bottom of the stone surface. Robin shook fourty dollars onto the counter top. The team’s relief was palpable.

“Let’s go buy some hotdogs straight off,” Kid Flash suggested quickly. Aqualad wrinkled his nose but didn’t say anything.

“Sure,” Robin scooped a bunch of dollars and stuffed them in his pockets, “You know, I don’t get why you were so upset about me seeing your face earlier.”

“What do you mean?” Kid Flash asked.

“You told M’gann your name,” Robin prompted.

“What?” Kid Flash frowned, “No, I didn’t.”

M’gann froze, staring at Robin. Fear was stark across her features.

“She used your name,” Robin continued, “She called you Wally?”

Kid Flash turned to look at M’gann, eyebrows raised.

M’gan fidgeted, tugging on her skirt. “I-I did...” She admitted, reluctantly.

“But—how?” Kid Flash asked.

Aqualad and Superboy had stopped and looked back at them, curious.

“It—I didn’t mean to!” M’gann burst out, “It’s just a thing you do on Mars—You scan the top of someone’s mind, just as a greeting! I did it on reflex!”

“You read my mind?!” Kid Flash yelped, eyes widening.

“I’m sorry!” M’gann chirped, blood rising to her face. With her complexion her blush looked like a bruise. “I didn’t mean to!”

“Still, it’s freaky!” Kid Flash said, running a hand through his hair, “I can’t believe—”

Robin’s hand landed on Kid Flash’s shoulder, and he glanced back at him—and stared.

Bright blue eyes stared back.

“You’re—” Kid Flash swallowed his words, staring.

“I’m Dick Grayson,” Robin said, crumpling the domino mask in his hand.

“Whoa!” Wally’s face was washed with surprise, fear forgotten. “The Wayne kid? Aren’t you totally loaded?!”

“Yeah,” Dick grinned.

“That’s nuts!” Wally said, appreciatively.

Superboy cleared his throat. “Can we go get hotdogs now?” He asked.

 

*

 

“There!” Dick dotted the last full-stop of the rota with flourish. He took another bite of his hotdog and scanned the paper again.

“It’s well-made,” Kaldur said, impressed. “It gives us all equal amounts of jobs and a fair amount of shifts for the five of us.”

“Six,” The Commisioner said from the doorway.

“Commish!” Wally beamed, “You’re joining our team?”

The Commisioner shot him an unimpressed look. “Not me,” He said, and stepped aside, “Her name is Artemis.”

A girl stepped into the kitchen. Wally’s eyes widened. No, not just any girl. A beautiful girl.

She was tall, with a bloom of thick, crisp gold hair that reached the base of her spine. The dark green suit exposed a compact, hard stomach. Her dark, quick eyes caught his gaze. She smiled and Wally melted.

Dick, oblivious, blew a raspberry and tore the rota in half. “I’m going to have to do this whole thing again,” He bemoaned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i may not respond to the comments, but I read and appreicate all of them. reading my old writing is making me cringe, but im glad y'all like it ahah


	5. Home

The drive out of Gotham was nice. The densely packed traffic eased the further they went from the city, and into the suburbs until they could drive properly, weaving in and out of cars and bikes. When they stopped at a red light, Superboy watched a little girl in a red frock drag a little scruffy dog away from a lamppost, face red with anger. The girl opened her mouth to shout something but she was whipped away when the car sped up.

Superboy glanced over at the Commissioner, who was sitting in the driver’s seat, hands wrapped around the steering wheel. There was a line of tension in his spine, a tightness around his eyes, but his grip on the steering wheel was loose. He looked more wary than scared.

The sky above cleared of skyscrapers gradually, replaced by a bright summer sky. Pale, near-transparent clouds circled the horizon, where they weren’t hidden by buildings. Superboy closed his eyes briefly. Conner…

_“Have they been treating you well, Conner?” The Commisioner said, stepping into the kitchen, glancing at Superboy before fixing Robin with a knowing look._

_Superboy glanced up, and then around, confused._

_“Who’s Conner?” Robin—Dick—asked, raising an eyebrow._

_“Oh!” The Commissioner had said, and if Superboy didn’t know better, he might of suspected a faint blush over his cheekbones, a little awkwardness in his tone. “Well I… I thought he needed a proper civilian name, that’s all.”_

Superboy huddled closer to the window and sighed through his nose. His breath was remembered in pale mist, and he wrote CONNER with his finger. He rubbed it out quickly before the Commissioner could see.

The flat landscape seemed to ripple, as the houses receded and the dips and rises of the hills grew. Buildings grew rarer, and shrunk away from the road, protected from the noise by a long driveway. Fewer and fewer cars joined them on the road, until they were alone with the winding tarmac.

They passed strawberry farms, barn-like churches, and cow farm. Cow farms were by far Superboy’s favourite. The animals looked soft and gentle, sticking their broad noses through the bushes. They looked friendly, from the glimpses he saw as they sped by.

Superboy slipped into a daze, and only realised when the car was slowing down, gravel crunching under the car’s wheels. He glanced up, blinking quickly.

The fields around them were bare and scruffy, littered with thin grass. A small farm house rested, a soft red, worn by age, a dozen paces from the road. A few chickens pottered around the front of the house, tearing up the muddy grass. With a sharp bark, a pure-white dog scared the chickens away, and stood, watching the car, with dark, intelligent eyes. Superboy glanced back at the Commissioner.

The man opened his mouth, and seemed to teeter on the edge of saying something, but only breathed deeply and closed his mouth. He let out a huff through gritted teeth and kicked the door open, moving around the front of the car to open Superboy’s door.

Superboy stepped out in to the quiet yard. From closer up, the house seemed even more innocent. Two pies were balanced on the thin windowsill to cool, and he could smell sweet apple and cooking food from the kitchen.

The big dog followed them, but wagged his tail when the Commissioner stooped the pet him.

“Ah!” An old woman padded out into the garden. She was small and plump, with a brightness in her face that eased Superboy’s nerves. “You’re here early!”

“Sorry,” The Commissioner said, scratching the dog behind the ears, “Traffic wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.”

“That’s alright,” The old woman said, and held one of Superboy’s elbows lightly, “Would you come into the kitchen, dear? There’s some pie I’d just love to get your opinion on.”

“Oh,” Superboy said, following her, “Oh, okay.”

The kitchen was warm, with a low ceiling and a big, dented wooden table. Sitting on the other side of it, semi-silhouetted by the bright window behind him, sat Superman. Superboy tensed, spine straightening like a bolt of electricity went through him, but the old woman just pottered past, picking up the pie from the windowsill.

Superman looked as uneasy as Superboy felt. He didn’t take his eyes off Superboy, but he managed a quick, awkward smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Superboy didn’t smile back.

“Here, my boy,” The old woman set the pie gently down on the table. “It’s still a little hot, but it should be alright if you blow on it.” The Commissioner set five small plates down and the old woman patted him on the side. “Thank you, Damian,” She smiled, and cut five slices, arranging them on the plates.

She handed one to Superboy, who accepted it, meekly, cutting off a mouthful with the side of his fork. He took a bite, and coughed, heat searing his tongue.

“Oh my! Here,” The old woman passed him a glass of water.

Superboy accepted and downed half of the glass in one big gulp. It was a bit too much water, and he grimaced as it went down. He smiled at her, more as an afterthought, and checked on Superman out of the corner of his eye.

“Have a seat,” Superman suggested.

Superboy sat.

“Now, I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,” The old woman said, taking a careful of her pie. “I’m Martha Kent. And I’m afraid I don’t know your name?”

“Ma, it’s not—” Superman started.

“Conner,” Superboy said, quickly. “It’s Conner.”

“Conner Kent,” Martha supplied, with a smile.

Superman frowned, “Ma, it’s not like that.”

Martha said nothing, taking a sip of water.

Superboy looked down at his pie, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

Damian cleared his throat, “Where’s Jonathan?”

“He’s out with the geese,” Martha said, “He should be back soon.”

“I think I’ll go help him,” Damian said, standing. He stretched his arms, scraping the ceiling with his knuckles, “I don’t like sitting around for too long. If that’s alright with you?”

“Be my guest,” Martha said, “I’m sure he’d appreciate it.”

Damian nodded and pulled on his coat.

Superboy glanced between Damian and Superman, unease welling up in his throat. He desperately wanted the Commissioner to stay, but he didn’t. He buttoned up his coat and left Conner alone with the Kents.

 

*

 

M’gann stuck close to Artemis, eyeing the large school building warily. Gotham Academy school looked imposing, not only because it was extensive and tall, but also because of the complete flatness of the landscape around made it all the more impressive. It was the same pink-red of the inside of pink grape-fruits, and the windows caught the light in long strips, glowing bright white.

“It won’t be too bad,” Artemis assured her, “You’re in my classes, for the most part.”

M’gann gritted her teeth and nodded, walking a little closer to her. Wally walking further away, grinned at her, sticking both thumbs up in a gesture M’gann didn’t recognise.

A bustle of students passed close by, and M’gann caught a burst of incoherent talk and ringing, bright laughter before they moved out of earshot. She glanced at Artemis, “Where’s Superboy?”

“I don’t know,” Artemis said, mildly. “The Commissioner needed him for something, apparently.”

“I hope he’s not in danger,” M’gann mumbled.

“He’ll be fine,” Artemis said, “His skull’s so thick nothing can get through it.”

It took a moment for M’gann to process the insult and she stopped, suddenly. “You don’t even know him,” M’gann snapped.

“Alright,” Artemis blinked, surprised, and lifted her hands in a placating gesture, “I’m sorry. I was just joking.”

M’gann frowned, but fell back into step with her.

“It’s Science first,” Artemis said, changing the subject, “You should like that. The first lesson of the year is always easy.”

M’gann nodded, trying to push down the nerves, and followed Artemis into the clean, broad hallways of the school, up a straight set of stairs and out, onto the science corridor. M’gann caught a glimpse of a bright illustration of a bubbling set of test-tubes, and a few rows of gold trophies behind a glass case, before Artemis pushed the door into a large classroom.

There was so many people. Half of them looked up as they entered, a few smiled. Artemis didn’t seem to mind, simply walked in and made a beeline for the back of the class, but M’gann’s heart lurched. Being around a small group had been fine, they had known who she was, but being around a large group of fifty or so humans sent a bolt of nerves into her chest. She felt like a fake, like a traitor.

“What are you waiting for?” Artemis asked from her seat, patting the space next to her, “I saved you a seat.”

M’gann moved carefully over, taking the seat.

Artemis explained how the school system worked in a hushed voice, and a few more students filed in. M’gann read all of the posters that plastered the walls, and inspected the conical flasks in the cupboard next to her seat. 9 AM approached slowly.

The teacher arrived, a tall woman with pale, unfocussed eyes but a broad smile and pretty, fly-away hair. It was the sort of hair M’gann wanted to shift into, just to feel how it bounced when she ran.

The teacher gave a brief overview of the course, which included handouts and a short presentation. She passed around a twenty-minute quiz which didn’t count to their grade, but would give her a good idea of their base knowledge. M’gann found it easy.

In the last ten minutes of the class, she brought up a painting of the solar system and stood in front of it. She smiled at the class, “The quiz will tell me how good you are at school, but I find it helpful to get to know you all as people,” She said, “That’s why I’m setting you all a small, paired presentation.”

The boy in front of M’gann groaned quietly, carving something into the wooden tabletop.

“It’ll only be for fifteen minutes,” The Teacher said, “And it’ll be on your favourite planet in the solar system.”

M’gann lifted her head.

 

*

 

“Hey, Wally,” M’gann closed her laptop with a huff, and padded over to the living area, “What do humans know about Mars?”

“What’s to know?” Wally didn’t look up from the television, “It’s hot. You’re all green aliens.”

“We’re not!” M’gann kicked the back of the sofa.

Wally cringed. “Yeah, sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Mars is much more complex than that!” M’gann snapped.

“Yeah,” Wally scratched the back of his neck, “You’re gonna have to forgive me for that,” He said, “I sometimes forget how complex Earth is, let alone any other planet.”

M’gann bit her lip, and turned on her heel, stalking into the corridor.

 

*

 

“Mars?” Kaldur scratched his chin. “I confess, I don’t know an awful lot. Martian Manhunter is hardly an open book. The public knows less about Mars than it does Krypton, which is saying something.”

“Oh,” M’gann lowered her notepad.

Kaldur set his weights down, “If it makes you feel better, they know about the same amount about Atlantis. Humans have a tendency to come off as a little offensive when they fill in the gaps themselves.”

M’gann laughed, despite herself. She remembered seeing a washing powder advert with pint-sized little green men spiriting away dirty washing. It had been ludicrous enough to throw her off balance when she first saw it.

“Are you sure you want to do Mars?” Kaldur asked, cautiously.

M’gann blinked at him. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Kaldur shook his head lightly, and returned to his weights. “No reason.”

 

*

 

M’gann ran into J’onn outside a small cafe in Gotham City’s quieter neighbourhoods (That was, by her standards, cacophonous). They hadn’t called, but she had felt his presence miles away. After days of keeping her walls up and having to consciously stop herself from scanning someone’s mind when she didn’t catch their meaning, it was intensely relaxing to have a mind she could rest in without feeling guilty.

Most of their conversation was non-verbal, while he ordered them two coffees and two slices of cake. She learned about the league’s recent mission from a flash of images and sound, and the progress of his day-job as a detective. In turn, she showed the morning’s science lesson, and the lackl-uster responses of her team to her questions. He smiled at her when she showed him, and it was a knowing smile.

M’gann dug into her cake, but left the coffee. It was much too bitter for her.

“The Atlantean has a point,” J’onn said, finally. M’gann knew he had to say it aloud to avoid arousing suspicion, but she still help disappointed.

M’gann frowned, but nodded.

“I know what you feel, M’gann,” J’onn rested a hand on hers, a very human gesture, but one she appreciated. “You cannot hate Mars. It is a part of you.”

M’gann stabbed at her cake. “I know,” She said, finally.

J’onn lifted his hand off hers, and took a long drink of his coffee.

 

*

 

After a slightly awkward meal that ended with a lot less casualties than Conner was expecting, the Commissioner finally bid his goodbyes to Martha Kent, coat bundled under his arm. With his sleeves rolled up, Conner saw a lot more scars breaking the Commissioner’s golden-brown skin than he was expecting, but he didn’t comment on it. They stepped out into the garden.

The sun was sinking low in the sky, like the end of a gigantic cigarette, blurred in the low, horizon-level clouds. With the fields as bare as they were, Conner could see for miles in nearly all directions.

Superman—Clark, Conner corrected—came out soon after them. “Commissioner Wayne?” He asked, glancing at Conner.

The Commissioner stopped, and looked at Superman mildly.

“Thank you,” Clark said, “I appreciate you taking the time off to do this.”

The Commissioner inclined his head, “It’s my pleasure.”

Clark fixed Conner with a strange look, somewhere between hesitation and confusion, but he didn’t say anything. After a long moment, he went back inside. Conner’s heart sunk low in his stomach, and followed the Commissioner back to the car.

Damian started the car, and pulled out onto the long road home. At dusk, the landscape looked less impressive. The tall trees started to blur together, and one lonely country road looked much like the last one.

Dark grass spun as they passed, a pair of white, empty eyes watched them from a rabbit hole. A cat raced them when they stopped to let a car out of a driveway, before the animal jumped back into the bush. There were no cows Conner’s chest felt heavy and cold.

“I wouldn’t blame Superman too much,” Damian said, levelly.

Conner looked at him coldly.

“Look at it from his perspective,” Damian suggested, turning down another road, “He’s lived his whole life thinking he’s the last kryptonian. He hasn’t known anyone else like him. And suddenly he’s not alone, but it’s his clone instead.”

“That’s not my fault,” Conner said, sharply.

“I know,” Damian said. His voice was low and earnest. “I know that. He knows that. But it’s one thing to know that and it’s another to totally accept that. Give him time, and he’ll come around.”

Conner glared out of the window.

The countryside rolled by. It was too dark to see the rising of the houses, and the flattening of the land. The twin headlights picked out things in sudden, fluorescent detail—a leaf, a twig, the underside of a bird—just for half a second.

He saw warm-looking living rooms through the windows of passing houses, a bonfire, the ends of a sizzling barbecue. They passed a pub he didn’t remember from the way up to the Kent’s, and what looked like a replica tank outside of a war memorial. Conner watched the street-lights pass.

“I thought Superman was supposed to be loving,” Conner said, mostly to himself.

“He’s supposed to be,” Damian agreed. He slowed to let a three legged dog hobble wildly across the road. “But he’s not always.”

“Why?” Conner looked back at him.

“It’s not possible to be all good,” Damian said, “We have to settle for what good we can do in reality rather than theory. People won’t accept him making mistakes—it’s a hell of a weight on his shoulders. Even Superman can’t do everything, because he’s only mortal.”

Conner watched the street-light spill over the dashboard and then Commissioner’s features before splintering into the back-seat. His expression was cool, but loose. The tension that had been present since the morning has eased, and his brilliant blue eyes watched the road calmly.

“I suppose,” Conner said, and rested his head back against the window.

 

*

 

“Superboy!” M’gann jumped up when he came in, knocking her notebook onto the floor. She levitated it while she floated over to him.

Conner shied away from her attention, pulling juice from the fridge. “Could you call me Conner?” He asked, pouring himself a glass.

“Conner?” M’gann blinked in surpise, and flushed. “Oh—of course.”

Conner took a long drink of juice. “Thank you.”

 

*

 

“And next,” The teacher glanced down at her clipboard, “We have Artemis Crock and Megan Morse.”

M’gann scooped up all of her notes and headed quickly to the front of the class, trailed by Artemis. It was unnerving, having everyone’s eyes on her. She set most of her notes down on the table beside the board, and pulled out a large card, keeping it facing towards her chest.

Artemis stepped forward, “So, the assignment was to choose our favourite planet from the solar system to talk about…” She said, holding out an arm dramatically, “And picking one was easy!”

M’gann flipped her card over.

The planet was perfectly spherical, and a brilliant shade of blue, edged with green.

A boy in the second row rolled his eyes.

Artemis gave her a reassuring smile.

“It’s Earth!” M’gann announced, brightly.


	6. Fear No Colours

Sunlight was dwindling, and the patchwork of Gotham sky blurred orange and pink with dusk—a colour that seemed oddly natural after the last few day’s red, violet and grey-green afternoons. Some element of a natural sky was bleeding through the smoke and pollution, and the twisting, Gothic architecture and foreboding atmosphere was dulled in the dying day. For an hour or two at least, the Gotham street could’ve be anywhere else in the world.

The shopping district was shutting down, shop windows darkening and the shoppers retreating. A security guard locked the door of a five-story shopping block, hardly glancing at the gangly teenagers trailing around the path. As the street darkened, the only light steamed down from above billboards with shapely models holding nail polish, beer, perfume.

“I must confess, I don’t understand it,” Kaldur said at last.

Wally huffed, tugging a flyer from his pocket and brandishing it at him. “It’s important!” Wally pointed to the white text under the game’s title, “Look, it’s only a few hours! Then we’ll have the game and officially be the coolest kids in the grade!”

“But we have martial arts training right afterwards with Black Canary,” Kaldur peered at the glossy paper. “You won’t be able to play the game until Monday evening anyway.”

“That’s not the point!” Wally jumped around the corner, narrowly missing a car that jumped onto the curb before swerving back. He grimaced at the retreating tail-lights.

“So what is the point?” Kaldur prompted.

“God, this queue is so long,” Wally squinted at the long tail of people outside the game store. “I mean, that’s pretty good proof it’s going to be good then.” Wally unfolded the lawn chair he was holding and placed it carefully behind a dark grey tent.

“I don’t follow,” Kaldur said.

“Well, they wouldn’t be waiting this long for Farming Simulator 2010, now, would they?” Wally kicked back in his chair, swinging one leg over the other.

“Wouldn’t they?” Kaldur asked, bewildered.

“No,” Wally said, firmly. He pulled out his wallet and counted his money. He check and rechecked his watch, before pushing back and folding his arms behind his head. “Man, waiting really is dull.”

“Don’t worry,” Kaldur perched on the edge of the pavement. “It’s only four more hours.”

Wally groaned and rolled over in his chair.

“I don’t understand why you don’t just buy the game tomorrow. It makes more sense,” Kaldur said. “You won’t have time to play it, and you can see if others enjoy the game enough to make it worth the money.”

“It’s not about that,” Wally huffed. “I want the game before anyone else! If I wait until tomorrow—well, I’ll have to wait until tomorrow!”

Kaldur blinked, and was silent for a moment. “I suppose.”

“I’m glad you see it from my perspective,” Wally nodded, sagely. In an impressive feat of flexibility, he folded his legs so each sole faced upwards, and balanced on the folding chair’s arms. He made a circle with his thumb and forefinger, closed his eyes, and started to hum.

Kaldur watched him for a moment. “What are you doing?”

Wally opened an eye, “Meditating is supposed to make you lose track of time.” He closed his eyes and hummed tunelessly for a little while. In a burst of movement he jumped out of his chair and stretched. “That felt like ages! How long was I meditating.”

Kaldur checked his watch, “A minute.” He said, rounding up.

Wally sighed and slumped back on his chair.

“Actually, I think you won’t have to wait much longer,” Kaldur stood up, stretching his legs.

“What do you mean?” Wally asked.

Kaldur showed Wally his watch, “We’ve got a mission. It’s in east Gotham, near the storm drain. The Commisioner is already there to meet us.”

Wally groaned, long and pronounced, “That will take ages! I’ll miss the opening sale!”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Kaldur said, “You’ll miss the opening rush.”

“Oh, Kaldur,” Wally folded his chair closed forlornly, “You have much to learn. There’ll be no copies left! This is Gotham, not Smallville.”

“I see,” Kaldur said, frowning. “Well, maybe if this mission is small then you should be able to make it back in time.”

Wally stared at him, a grin brewing on his features. “You’re right!” He exclaimed, throwing the folding chair over his arm. “I always spend all my time waiting for you guys to catch up, but I can just do it at my pace for once!”

“Wally, that’s not—” Kaldur started.

“Thanks Kaldur!” Wally jumped into the road, careering off with a speed which was dangerously close to superhuman. Kaldur jogged after him, an unease bubbling in his chest.

 

*

 

A blur of yellow sprayed Damian with a facefull of dirty rainwater. He scowled, rubbing his face grimly.

“HiCommisioner,youlookgoodtoday,canIgoinsideandfightthebagguynow?” Kid Flash was practically buzzing.

Damian pulled out his phone. “It’s a delicate situation,” He said, “A few criminals have taken some hostages and a bomb into the heart of the tunnel systems and are threatening to set it off. There is some—”

“Alright, I’m going in!” Kid Flash jumped into a run that was cut short by a baton to the chest. Kid Flash eyed the baton warily, remembering Robin’s.

Damian slipped the baton back inside his coat, “As I was saying, there is some unknown gas inside the tunnels.”

“Come on!” Kid Flash snapped, “I’m immune to all poisons! My system can work through anything in a few minutes!”

“What if it was a gas leak?” Damian said, “Any sparks you create could blow the whole city to pieces.”

“My suit is frictionless!” Kid Flash said pinching a section of his suit and stretching it. “I’ll deal with the chumps before they even know what hit them! It’s take ten minutes, tops!”

Damian looked at him, darkly. He sighed through his nose. “I’ve said it already, it’s a delicate situation. You need your team and you need to be properly prepared.”

Kid Flash sighed, heavily, turning away. He spent the next fifteen minutes skating up and down the half-circle storm drains through ankle-deep water, spraying the gathered police officers with relish. The sun was retiring behind the huge black skyscrapers. The skyline was as uneven as broken glass, lined with orange and pink.

“We came as soon as we could,” Aqualad said, appearing at Damian’s side.

“Not soon enough!” Kid Flash growled, circling the shallow water in front of them, spraying the group.

“Wally!” M’gann said, brushing dirty water from her skirt. “That’s uncalled for. You know we aren’t as fast as you!”

“Yeah, I know!” Wally growled.

“Someone’s in a bad mood,” Artemis observed quietly.

Kaldur looked up from the phone the Commissioner had given him. “This is quite a tricky situation we have on our hands,” He said, “This is going to take some careful planning and—”

“Forget that!” Wally adjusted his goggles and bursting into the tunnels. “I’m sick of you guys slowing me down!”

“Wally!” M’gann shouted after him, but he disappeared around a turn and was swallowed by the tunnels.

 

*

 

The storm drains were too dark for him to see without his headlamp, and the air felt damp and tasted of mold and metal. The dark rain water climbed to his knees but didn’t go any higher. The sound of slapping, dripping tides seemed to follow him everywhere.

Sure, it had been reckless to go in without knowing the direction, at least, but it was near impossible for a speedster to get lost. They simply doubled back and tried every exit in quick succession until they found the right route. Wally was pretty confident it would work.

The sharp metal supports above his head looked like the ribs of a basilisk. The water started to seep into his costume, freezing and slimy.

When Wally was about three tunnels in, he started to smell something strange. It was sharp, sour, and slightly fruity, like rotting meat. He pressed his hand over his mouth, before he realised it wasn’t going to help. Instead, he stood, water rolling up his thigh, and waited for any side effects; Nausea, vomiting, light-headedness, increased heart rate… anything like that.

He felt nothing.

Wally grinned at himself. It was probably some kind of harmless stuff, like a stink bomb. It certainly smelled like one.

Water rippling around him, he kicked off, speeding through the tunnels. The foaming water behind him looked like streaks of lightning behind him, sloshing up the curved walls either side of him, breaking together at the top. He—

froze.

Water came crashing down behind him, hitting his back like a mini-tsunami, but Wally stood still. Light pressure climbed up his leg, shifting and twisting past his shins. Eels.

Wally stared down at the water. The brilliant light of his headlamp was reflected in chunks of white, but under the rolling surface—he saw them. Slips of black, needle-thin white teeth, ribs of thin flesh along its spine. He saw them gliding over one another, blank white eyes looking, unseeingly, at his thin ankles. One movement—that was all it would take. One movement and they would strike.

He felt his heart-rate pick up, and his breaths felt thinner thinner.

One of the Eels breached the surface of the water, thin white teeth glinting in his headlamp before it dived back underneath.

Wally looked away, staring straight up at the ceiling. Heat prickled behind his eyes. _God_ , he thought, _God, Wally, think! There must be something you can…_ He stared around.

He stood at what looked like a join of eight tunnels except… it wasn’t. There were were eight tunnels but they didn’t look like metal, instead there was some sort of membrane covering them, something that pulsed gently with every passing second. There were thick, bulbous veins streaking over the ceiling, breaking through the flesh abover Wally’s head. It was like how he’d imagine being inside a hollowed-out octopus, the tunnels undulating gently, water slopping over the inside of some great organ.

It was horrifying.

Wally started to shake.

The water was a dark green, thick with Eels, a great knotted mass of slithering, slimy eels. Any more and they would start to break the surface. From somewhere deep in the beast’s body a great roar picked up, shaking the dark water.

Wally shrunk back, hands pressed over his ears. When he moved the Eels swarmed up his legs, crushing him like a vice. He fell against the membranous wall, feeling the uneven, warm flesh. He shrieked, and jumped forward, slipping on the tunnel floor and dunking straight into the mass of eels.

Clear, cold water engulfed his head. He resurfaced, spluttering, and looked around, hesitantly.

The Eels were gone. The flesh was gone. Wally was left in a cold, dark tunnel. He could hardly see the walls. Somewhere, water dripped endlessly. His heart was still thundering at light speed. After a long moment, breathing thickly, he picked himself up and glanced around. Cold light spilled onto the water straight ahead, shifting as the water moved.

“It’s alright,” A familiar voice said, behind him.

Wally straightened up, and spun around. He blinked at the dark silhuette standing above a small waterfall. “Barry?” He asked.

Barry’s feet parted the water, and one hand was curled around the bar above the drop. Behind him, a steady beat of water fell into a lower section of drains,. Barry looked just as Wally had seen him earlier that day, but his expression was uncharacteristically grim.

And then Wally noticed the gun.

It was rest in Barry’s free hand, held lightly along his thigh.

“What’s that for?” Wally asked.

Barry noticed him looking and shrugged gently. A familiar softness returned to his features. “It’s alright,” He said.

“What’s alright?” Wally asked. Fear was spiking in his chest again, a terrible, sick fear.

“All of it,” Barry let go of the bar, standing taller. He squared his shoulders and sighed deeply. “It’s all going to be alright, Wally.”

He pressed the gun to his temple.

“No!” Wally screamed, leaping forward, kicking into speed—

—and fell straight through Barry.

For a moment, Wally was suspended in air. For a moment he was confused.

And then he fell.

Water crashed around his ears, bitterly cold. He struggled, kicking wildly, at the rush of foam. There was something in the water with him, he could feel slick tentacles gripping his ankles and wrists, circling tight around his chest. Something closed over his mouth and he tore at it, bloodying his nails. Wally was picked up and dragged onto the stone, tentacles too tight to dislodge. He threw his weight into trying to throw them off, but they gripped tight, holding something to his mouth. He breathed sharply, heat beating fierce.

“Enough, Wally!” Kaldur snapped in his ear.

Wally stilled, nails still digging into Kaldur’s arms. Kaldur’s skin was different from most people’s he’d met—it was hairless and rough, like the skin of a dolphin. Wally took a few careful breaths, and Kaldur released him.

Wally jumped away, standing up. His knees were still unsteady, but he managed to stop himself from falling. The thing around his mouth and nose turned out to be a small filter. He coughed up water, and removed his mask for a half a second to spit it out before slamming it back on.

Kaldur watched Wally from where he sat, a little warily.

Wally knelt next to him.

“And you’re...” Wally said, through the mask, “You’re real right?”

“As far as I know,” Kaldur said, dryly.

Wally slapped him.

Kaldur recoiled, anger rising to his eyes. “First you attack me when I try to help you, now you’re slapping me?” He said, hotly.

Wally dragged him into a hug. “I’m sorry! I just—I just...”

Kaldur hesitated, and wrapped his arms around the speedster. “I know. We heard it over the comms,” He said.

Wally gulped. “How… how much did you guys here?”

Kaldur frowned, “All of it, I think.”

Wally buried his nose in Kaldur’s shoulder, “God, I bet Artemis heard all of it too.”

“It’s a fair bet,” Kaldur agreed.

Wally groaned.

After a moment, they separated. Wally stood on the edge of the pool, staring down into the water. The water foamed wildly as the constant flow hit it, churning the dark surface. It was impossible to see into it. Wally kept away from it.

“Where is everyone?” Wally asked.

“They’re planning an attack closer to the hostages,” Kaldur said, fixing his own mask on his face. “We’re doing a careful, coordinated response, of the type B manouver.”

Wally looked at the floor guiltily.  
“We could use your help in getting the hostages out,” Kaldur looked back at Wally, a glint in his dark eyes. “Are you coming?”

Wally beamed.

 

*

 

Artemis’ foot connected with a criminal’s skull with a definite crack, and the man fell with a splash. She flipped over his unconscious body, making sure the airways were clear, before straightening up. “Is that all of them?” She asked.

“Yes,” M’gann said, a green glow enclosing the downed criminal, and he lifted from the water chest-first. “And Wally should be back soon.”

As if on cue, Wally appeared, kicking up a spray of dirty water which M’gann redirected. He looked embarrassed, behind both masks. “Hey,” He said, sheepish. “I got every hostage to safety… And, sorry about—...”

“Don’t worry about it,” Artemis said, clapped him on the shoulder and offered him a smile. “It happens to the best of us.”

Wally flushed darker, and his shoulders stiffened. He smiled weakly at her. “Thank you,” He said, voice a little wobbly.

Artemis nodded and waded past, slipping the bow onto her back.

Robin glanced at Conner, who had the lead kidnapper slung over his back and wiggled his eyebrows. Conner just stared blankly back at him.

 

*

 

“Commissioner!” One reporter leaned heavily over the police tape, nearly folded in half, waving the tape recorder at the man. “Commissioner, do you have anything to tell the public?”

The commissioner stood with water up to his shins, intense blue eyes watching the hostages stumble into the open air. He watched them fall against the paramedics, everyone of them shaking and mumbling.

“Commissioner, is it true that the drains were filled with a dangerous unknown drug? A drug—” The reporter was ushered back by a detective, but shrugged them off. “A drug known to cause severe hallucinations?”

The commissioner’s pale eyes followed the moonlight breaking over the water.

“Is it true that the hostages suffered terrifying life-like delusions?” The reporter pushed, “A drug that some are already dubbing a—” The detective caught the reporter by the arm and pulled her away.

“A fear toxin,” Damian muttered.

 

*

 

Jonathan Crane heard the door slam open from the other side of the lab and a sharp spike of panic hit his chest. He straightened up, glancing between the microscope he’d been using and the set of a dozen petri dishes that littered the bench. He had to think fast.

He couldn’t destroy the evidence fast enough even if he wanted to. There would be no point running into the street either—whoever had come for him would have it secured. That left only one option.

There was a sliding thump as they knocked over science text books in the hallways and jumped swiftly over them. When they threw the door open, the door-frame exploded.

Jonathan stared.

Damian stood, blue eyes lit with a pale fire. He didn’t shy away from the bullet holes near his ear, didn’t spare a glance at the gun in Jonathan’s hand. He was just as Jonathan remembered, except somehow even more than in memory. He gave off the impression of weight and power, like a bull.

“Damian...” Jonathan said, weakly. His hands shook.

Damian stalked towards him, snatched the gun from his hands, unloaded it with a sharp motion and dropped it. “Why did you do it?!” Damian gritted out.

This close, the intensity of his presence was nearly overwhelming, and Jonathan shied away. “What—what…?”

“Why did you do it?!” Damian said, gripping Jonathan’s shoulders.

“I-I-I…” Words clumped in Jonathan’s throat and he pushed away, hitting the wall with a thump. “I-I-I didn’t mean— I didn’t mean...”

Damian stared down at him.

“It was—it was for science!” Jonathan burst out, “The drug was never meant to be used against regular people! I-I was trying—trying—...” His words guttered out.

Damian snatched his wrist and spun him around, shoving him against the work top. “You have the right to remain silent,” He snapped cuffs around Jonathan’s wrists, “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law—”

“Damian!” Jonathan said, panic sharp in his voice, “Damian, you can’t—”

“You have the right to an attorney,” Damian pulled him up and led him briskly outside, “If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointment to you. Do you understand these rights as I read them to you?”

Jonathan stumbled over the fallen textbooks and was jerked back upwards. “I-I—...” He stammered.

“Do you understand?” Damian pushed him through the open door.

The sudden chill and noise of the street nearly overwhelmed him. Jonathan’s knees felt week and nearly gave out when he stopped suddenly. “I—yes,” He managed, blinking at the sharp pulse of light from the police car. A deep chill of guilt sunk through his ribs and he turned back, trying to twist his arms so he could see his old friend. “Damian—”

Damian stared back at him, eyes cold.

“This the guy?” A detective appeared at the Commissioner’s shoulder, dark eyes glinting blue in the unsteady light. “I’ve got him.”

The detective took Jonathan’s wrists and propelled him towards the car. Jonathan’s half-started words dimmed to mumbles. His ankles nearly crumpled, but the detective caught him.

“Don’t worry, pal,” The detective said, steadying Jonathan, “It won’t be long now.”

Jonathan’s chest was in agony. A sharp, hot prickling started behind his eyes and he twisted around, catching a glimpse of the Commissioner. “Damian!” Jonathan shouted, “Damian, I-I—...”

The Commissioner’s hawklike eyes turned to him.

“Damian—Damian,” Jonathan whimpered, “Damian, I’m sorry!”

Damian's eyes didn't shine in the dim light. They were very, very dark.

 

*

 

A true Gotham night—a full black night—was a rare, cold thing. The decade-old, thick pollution that coated the city’s sky glowed a spectrum of ghoulish colours depending on a wide variety of factors, reflecting the buzz and colour of the city below it. One night it was violet, deep blue, and orange in turn, the next a deep, grisly red that lingered for weeks. Gotham’s own brand of degradation frightened and fascinated Meteorologists in equal measure.

The night Damian looked out on from the balcony of his mansion was close to a proper, earth-like night, the closest he’d seen in years. The sky was a deep black, only edged with yellow, and although the stars were hidden, the city imitated them in their absence. He watched, dully, as the cars inched around near-gridlocked roads, and the last few pedestrians headed home. It was nearing the small hours of the morning.

A chill settled on Damian’s bare feet. He took another sip of his drink. “How long are you going to hang there?” He asked the empty air.

There was a soft laugh, and Superman landed quietly behind him, “How long were you going to let myself believe I was sneaky?”

Damian quirked an eyebrow at him and perched on the edge of the balcony’s bench. “If you didn’t have a costume like that, you might just be,” He said.

“I have to give them some kind of edge,” Superman sat opposite him.

The wind rippled the trees, shaking a dark bird from the branches. The bird curved above the grey driveway before disappearing into the black night.

A car passed somewhere close to the mansion, a dim rumble. Ace padded onto the balcony, and flopped down next to Damian’s chair.

He remembered Jonathan, but younger. He remembered pushing a boat onto the water, Bruce and Jonathan already in it, and jumping in with them. He remembered teaching him to row. He remembered watching the little fish, swimming out of reach, a flicker-beat of grey scales, Bruce pushing him in when he leaned too far over the edge.

Damian scratched the dog behind his ears, absently. He looked down into his glass of water. “Clark… do you think people can change? And how much?”

Clark looked over a him, expression unreadable. He was quiet for a moment, and cleared his throat. “I don’t know,” He admitted.

Damian looked up at him, and sighed, deeply.

“I do know that you did the right thing today,” He said, “Even if it didn’t feel like it.”

Damian nodded into his drink. He would take Clark’s word for it.

 

*

 

“Oh,” Kaldur said, looking up when he heard the automatic door whoosh open, “Good Morning Wally.”

Wally flopped down on the kitchen chair. The bruises from Black Canary’s martial arts training the day before had all completely healed, but he winced like he could still feel them. He poked at the bowl of fresh fruit on the kitchen top glumly.

“Do you want some fried scallops?” Kaldur asked, flipping the pan. The little clams toppled over each other.

“No thanks,” Wally said, digging his nails into a banana.

“May I have some?” M’gann appeared in the doorway, looking as fresh and bright as always,

“Of course,” Kaldur said, fetching another plate.

Kaldur pushed the clams around the pan. He lifted his head, “Oh yes, I just remembered. The Commissioner left you a package, Wally.”

“A package?” Wally mumbled into his arm. He spotted a square brown paper package on the table and tugged it towards him.

“I suspect it’s something mission related,” Kaldur said, pouring the scallops onto a plate. “Perhaps WayneTech have finished developing a new kind of protein bar? I heard there was one in development.”

Wally grumbled, and tore it open.

The frown melted from his face. He stared. Slowly, he got to his feet. His wrists shook.

“Kaldur!” Wally yelped, and snatched his friend’s shoulder, nearly knocking the breakfast out of his hands. “Kaldur look!!”

Kaldur looked.

There was a game package in Wally’s hands, with the intricate, swirling design Kaldur recognised but couldn’t place. He frowned.

“It’s the game!” Wally’s voice was squeaky with happiness. “He got the game!”

Kaldur glanced at M’gann, who only shrugged. He looked back at Wally, “That’s good news?”

“It is!” Wally burst out, “I can’t believe it!! Dude, I didn’t have any reservations about him before but now I’d follow that guy to the end of the earth!”

Kaldur nodded, and smiled. “I hope you enjoy it, my friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .
> 
> .
> 
> .
> 
> until i find my usb drive from whatever dumb place ive stashed it, this will have to be it. I've written another chapter for this fic, I just can't find it. So it's not a goodbye, it's a... see you later


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